


The Legacy

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Co-workers, Drama, F/M, Historical, Magical Artifacts, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Partnership, Romance, Spells & Enchantments, Suspense, Time Travel, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco finds himself partnered with Hermione Granger at work, he decides to make lemonade out of the obvious lemons and use the situation to impress his boss with his brilliance and expertise.  Very suddenly, however, things take an unforeseen and dangerous turn, throwing their very lives into the balance.</p><p>Written for Round 5 of the Dramione Couples Remix.  My chosen, real-life couple were Raymond-Roger Trencavel and his wife, Agnes de Montpellier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

 

27 July 2004  
Tuesday

“Mr. Malfoy.” 

The voice was quiet; nevertheless, its tone demanded attention.

The young man had been nodding off at his desk, arms folded behind his blond head and his long legs stretched out unceremoniously on the desk, nesting amongst stacks of papers in some disarray.

“Mister. Malfoy.” There was now a dangerous pause between the young man’s title and his surname, and with some reluctance, Draco Malfoy opened his eyes. This was his boss’ voice and one did not ignore Quintus Fitzhugh. Not if one wanted to retain his place of employment beyond the next five minutes.

With a carefully ingratiating smile, Draco swung his feet off the desk and straightened in his chair, blinking quickly to clear his head.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

Quintus Fitzhugh’s mouth curled at the edges in a small, knowing smile. Lucius Malfoy had felt obliged to warn his old friend and fellow ex-Slytherin of his son’s predilections for occasional sloth and cutting corners when approaching Fitzhugh about a possible position for Draco at Fitzhugh International. The young man had done a stint at Malfoy Enterprises, but his father had felt that it would be good for Draco, a character-building exercise as it were, to have to answer to an employer who would have no particular compunction about sacking him if his work weren’t up to snuff. 

On the plus side, the elder Malfoy had also apprised Fitzhugh of Draco’s keen analytical mind and considerable magical prowess. It was for these qualities that Fitzhugh had decided to do his old friend a favour and take a chance on young Malfoy. He just might prove a valuable asset to Fitzhugh International – _if_ his more juvenile tendencies could be curbed. What Quintus Fitzhugh had in mind for him now might well be a revealing test, both of the younger man’s talents and his work ethic.

“Excellent question,” he now replied. “As it happens, FI has acquired several items that I believe are of considerable worth, not only monetarily but also in terms of their historical value – both potentially incalculable, in fact.”

Draco frowned briefly and sat up straighter. Despite himself, this pronouncement had got his attention. “What are they? How did you get them? What do you reckon they might be worth?”

Fitzhugh let out a quick, gravelly laugh. “One question at a time. How I came to have them is immaterial. What matters now is their appraisal, which will necessitate researching their history in order to determine their actual age and value as magical antiquities. If they are genuine...” He paused, a satisfied smile flickering over his face. “Well, suffice it to say that they will fetch a very pretty price indeed on the open market. I expect we will have a horde of private collectors as well as the Ministry clamouring to buy them. Talking of the Ministry...”

These last few words and the pause that followed them carried a certain ominous weight that Draco didn’t like. “The Ministry, sir?”

“Yes. As the Ministry is quite keen to purchase the items for its own collection of wizarding artefacts, they are sending one of their people over here to work with you on establishing their authenticity.”

“Why give them the advantage over private buyers?”

Quintus Fitzhugh sighed. “It’s the government, first off. Much simpler to cooperate than to risk a whole host of problems if they decide to begin nitpicking over regulations. Second, having one of their people researching the objects’ legitimacy lends a credibility to them that can only increase their value, once the private sector learns that the Ministry has given the objects its seal of approval, which I’ve every confidence they will do. I expect,” he added pointedly, “that you will do everything in your power to cooperate with their investigator. Whilst she is on loan from the Ministry and temporarily in my employ, you will make the objects available for her perusal, and you will share any information you may have uncovered on your own; in short, you will be a model of gracious, knowledgeable cooperation. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Draco took a measured breath. Fitzhugh had said _her._ “Do we know who the Ministry is sending?”

Quintus Fitzhugh had begun to make his way to the door. Now he turned. “As a matter of fact, we do. It’s one of their specialists in rare antiquities. Brilliant young woman, from what I understand, with a nose for research. Magically talented. A real go-getter. Wish I’d hired her myself. Her name is –” 

The other shoe was about to drop, and Draco knew, suddenly, that it could have only one name on it with that particular description.

 _Fuck_.

“Problem, Mr. Malfoy?” The sharpness in Fitzhugh’s voice brooked only one reply.

“Oh no, sir, none at all, I assure you,” Draco answered woodenly, summoning a wan smile. “You were saying?”

“Oh yes.” Fitzhugh’s smile was serene as he played out the moment just a touch longer, watching his young employee squirm. The history between young Malfoy and the Ministry’s investigator hadn’t been difficult to uncover. This would indeed be a test of his professional abilities, but even more crucially, of his resolve and dedication to the job, lighting a much-needed fire under his indolent, noncommittal young bum.

“Her name is Hermione Granger.”

 

*

 

 

The young woman who walked with easy assurance into the reception area of Fitzhugh International two days later was not the one Draco had expected and prepared himself to confront. This girl was cool, elegant, and utterly self-possessed.

And apparently unfazed by the sight of him, from the look of her. He found this inexplicably unsettling, annoying even. 

“Malfoy,” she said politely, inclining her head with a cordial nod that was all business. 

“Granger,” he replied. “You’re here, I see.”

Admittedly, a lame response. He cringed inwardly, finding himself so tongue-tied. This wasn’t like him and never had been, especially not with her.

His observation seemed to amuse her, for one corner of her mouth curled upwards in a brief half-smile. “So it would seem,” she remarked serenely.

When he made no move either to say anything more or get out of her way, she raised an eyebrow delicately and then walked around him. 

“Mr. Fitzhugh is expecting me,” she told him over her shoulder. “If I were you, Malfoy, I should have the files and the objects in question ready for examination. No point in wasting time.”

 _If I were you... No point in wasting time._ Bloody hell. He’d just been put firmly in his place by Hermione Granger of all people. Just who did she think she was, speaking to him in such a condescending manner? Jumped-up little bitch with a fucking tent pole up her arse.

He opened his mouth to reply, a choice rejoinder on the tip of his tongue, when he caught Quintus Fitzhugh’s eye. From where he stood in the doorway of his private office, the older man shook his head slowly and meaningfully, and Draco closed his mouth again.

Fuming silently, he strode off towards his own office, imprecations rattling round in his head like razor-sharp, little daggers. Yeah, okay, he had to work with her, but he didn’t have to like it. And he’d be damned if he made it pleasant or easy for her. This was _his_ project alone, or by rights, it should be, and he’d see to it that the credit wound up where it properly belonged, no matter what it took.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were seated in one of the private conference rooms, an unremarkable-looking strongbox on the table before them. 

Clearing his throat, Fitzhugh regarded the two young people across from him. Young Mr. Malfoy looked curiously peeved and a bit antsy; fidgeting impatiently, he was all but drumming his fingertips on the table, and only by sheer force of will was he refraining from doing that. Whether he was anxious to get cracking on the project or merely impatient to get the hell out of there wasn’t entirely clear. Or possibly, it was something else altogether. Whatever the reason, he seemed ready to jump out of his skin, Fitzhugh noted, not without a small kernel of satisfaction. 

Miss Granger seemed quite eager too, but Quintus Fitzhugh had no doubts about what prompted her intense gaze and the excited smile that she couldn’t hide. Malfoy would have his work cut out for him, keeping this girl’s runaway enthusiasm and natural take-charge proclivities in check, and from the look on his face, he knew it. It was already obvious that a battle royal for control of the project would be brewing before very long. Quintus Fitzhugh smiled to himself. Well and good. Whatever spurred Lucius’ boy – well, the two of them, really – to do their best, most focused and meticulous work could only serve to benefit Fitzhugh International in the end. 

“Now then,” Fitzhugh began briskly, reaching for the strongbox and unlocking it with a flick of his wand and a hastily murmured “ _Alohomora_.” Lifting the lid, he drew out a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper. With extreme care, he undid the wrapper, extracting from it a book bound in richly worked leather and decorated in gold leaf, much of it long since worn away. There was a much smaller parcel as well, and this he unwrapped with a delicacy that surprised Draco, given that, like the rest of him, Quintus Fitzhugh’s hands were plump, his fingers square and stubby.

What he uncovered next was a very small, plain box, its latch rusted. 

Hermione and Draco exchanged glances and then both leaned forward without thinking. Rather dramatically, Fitzhugh lifted the lid, turning it so that his young employees could get a first look at its contents.

Hermione drew in a stunned breath and sat back, still staring, while Draco leaned in for a closer look, eyes narrowing and brows drawn. Inside, on a bed of worn velvet, were two matching gold rings, tarnished and quite old from the looks of them, both with an intricate design worked into the metal and encrusted with small but brilliant rubies. Or rather, they would be brilliant, once the rings had been properly cleaned.

“What do you reckon, then, eh?” Fitzhugh sat back with a satisfied smile. “How old do you suppose they are?”

“Oh gosh,” Hermione murmured. “I would say they go back at least –”

“Six hundred years,” Draco chimed in. “At least.” He turned to Hermione with a smug grin. First volley fired, direct hit. Small, but satisfying. “Wouldn’t you say, Granger?”

“I would, yes,” she answered pleasantly enough, though Draco could tell that she was carefully schooling herself. “In fact," she added, smiling sweetly, "that’s exactly what I was _about_ to say.” 

Then Hermione turned a genuine and quite engaging smile in Quintus Fitzhugh’s direction. “In fact, I would venture to guess, just on first glance of course, that these rings might very well be a good deal older. But we’ll have to examine them much more closely before we know for certain. The book too.” Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a pair of special gloves and slipped them on. “May I?”

“Of course.” Fitzhugh slid the book, cushioned by its paper wrapping, over to Hermione and then watched, arms folded in anticipation, as she began to study it.

 _Shit._ Draco gritted his teeth, expelling a tiny, frustrated sigh. His own gloves were in his desk, back in his office. He’d neglected to bring them, not expecting they’d actually be carrying out a close, physical examination during this first meeting or even handling the objects, period. Trust Granger to be thoroughly prepared for any eventuality, though. Hell, she probably had an entire potions lab in that bag of hers, ready to launch straight into a full-on analysis at a moment’s notice. 

Meanwhile, Hermione was turning pages, handling each one with gingerly caution as she scrutinised it and hardly daring to breathe. Despite himself, Draco moved his chair closer, wanting to see more and too impatient to wait until he had his own gloves.

“Careful,” she murmured, as his bent head drew close to hers. “This parchment is extremely fragile.”

“No need to tell me that, Granger,” he answered stiffly. “I am well aware.” 

Although he was still feeling miffed, curiosity drew him even closer, so that their heads were virtually touching now. Errant tendrils of soft, vanilla-scented hair brushed his cheek as he craned his neck to get a better look.

Opening the book to a random page, Hermione pointed to an entry. “It appears to be a journal of some sort. I’m afraid my French is a bit rusty, though. You speak it, don’t you, Malfoy?” Turning her head, she found herself looking straight into Draco’s eyes, startling both of them.

Surprised, he recoiled reflexively. But her question had opened an opportunity for him, and he was quick to recover himself and seize it. 

“Fluently,” he replied. Here was something at which he could best Granger, and quite spectacularly, too. “Right, then... _‘Mercredi, le quinzième de juillet 1209.’_ Wednesday, the fifteenth of July 1209. _‘Je suis une fois de plus seuls.’_ I am once again alone. _‘Mon mari voyage à Montpellier, mais j'ai peur pour lui.’_ My husband journeys to Montpellier, but I fear for him. _‘Son... ne peut pas être assuré aucun plus, ni ne pouvez mine ou celui de notre fils.”_

“Yes? Go on.” Quintus Fitzhugh raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Well, see...” Draco paused and then looked up, frowning. “A bit of the sentence is missing here. Some of the words are badly smudged; I can’t make them out. _‘His...’_ something, something... _‘cannot be assured any longer, nor can mine or that of our son.’_ That’s the end of the entry, or at least as much of it as I can read. Looks like the parchment’s been damaged. Water or dry rot, I expect.”

He shot a glance at Hermione, who was nodding gravely. “That’s what happens so often with these really old documents,” she remarked. “We just have to do our best with what we’ve got. There may be a way, though, to restore at least some of the missing text. My department has had some really amazing results with an elixir we’ve perfected just in the last couple of years.”

“And who precisely are ‘we’?” Draco challenged. Something about her manner – the way she held her head, her tone – just reeked of a sense of presumptive superiority. Coming from her, it was an irritant he couldn’t bear. 

“My colleagues and I at Magical Artefacts, of course,” she replied, puzzled. “I thought you knew where I work.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten.” The smile he gave her now was rather arch. “The Ministry. I’m heartened to know that substantive research is actually possible there, what with all the T’s you have to cross and the I’s that need dotting. In triplicate no doubt.” He leaned forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, and gazed at her with wide-eyed earnestness. “I suppose you prefer the slow-moving wheels of government bureaucracy to the fast pace and challenges of private industry, then?” He dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “More comfortable, perhaps? Less demanding?”

Bulls-eye. At last, he’d got under Granger’s skin, her pursed lips and the small, irritated huff both dead giveaways. 

“For your information, Malfoy,” she began, and her voice had a bit of an edge now, “the ‘slow-moving wheels of government bureaucracy,’ as you so eloquently put it, are actually not slow-moving and far less of a bureaucracy than you might imagine. That was true once, but things are different now, much more streamlined and efficient. The Minister has given every department far more autonomy than was ever the case in the past, from what I understand.” 

She sighed, shaking her head and seeming very far away, suddenly. 

“The war changed a lot of things, you know,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “The Ministry doesn’t want to make the same mistakes they made before; they won’t pull the wool over their own eyes and delude themselves again, handing off responsibility to others and hiding behind the bureaucracy instead of really confronting problems. It’s not the old Ministry anymore. We’re really transforming things now, from the inside.”

It hadn’t ended up being the response Draco had hoped to goad out of her, and for the moment, he found himself chastened and without a smart reply at the ready. He remained silent even as his boss stood and excused himself, leaving them to continue working on their own. 

Then, as Hermione turned her attention back to the objects, picking up one of the rings, Draco smiled to himself as something occurred to him. In point of fact, the whole thing was actually rather amusing. Granger hadn’t changed a bit, had she. Ever the impassioned idealist, she really believed, it seemed, that she and others who were just as foolishly, naively hopeful could actually change things. But the fact was, people were still all too human under the skin, as fundamentally flawed and self-serving as they ever were and just as damaged behind their civilised masks as the parchment in that diary.

His experience with Voldemort had taught him one thing: take care of number one. He’d been horribly, viciously used, put through hell, and he would never allow that to happen again. Nor would he ever allow himself to end up the broken, pathetic wreck his father had become in the last year of the war, all because _he’d_ been manipulated by that same maniac. Take care of number one, that was the ticket. And keep your guard up. People would use you if they could. If you let them. Now, going forward, all he wanted was to stay well under the radar and look after his own needs. If he didn’t, nobody else would. 

“Well, bully for you, Granger,” he drawled. “I feel ever so uplifted now, and reassured. Reckon I’ll stick with the private sector, thanks all the same. Lots more zeroes in my pay check.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged, her face settling back into an impassive mask. “I’m not here to recruit you. We’ve a job to do, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

And just like that, whatever advantage Draco had felt he’d won, however he’d felt he might have rattled her and got her to show some vulnerability, even just a little bit – all of it evaporated on the spot. Once again, he was left with the feeling that he’d been cut down to size without even knowing how it had happened – moreover, that he’d somehow become very nearly irrelevant. Granger could probably carry on just as well if not better without him, or at least that was the impression she gave him now.

Well, fuck that, and fuck her, too, while he was about it. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. In the end, the rings and the diary were the property of FI, and old Fitzhugh – _his_ boss, not hers – must value his judgement, surely, or he wouldn’t have been assigned this case. Well, he would show her. His contribution to the work would be both impressive and absolutely essential, showing Fitzhugh that Draco was more than worth his salt.

Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his chin, a muscle pulsing faintly in his jaw. 

“My thought exactly. But not here.”


	2. Chapter 2

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Hermione were surprised to find herself at Fitzhugh International one minute and then standing in the vast private library at Malfoy Manor the next, she managed to maintain her composure, but only just.

Draco was still holding her elbow where he had grabbed her, along with the box containing the rings and the journal, and Apparated them to the Malfoy family seat in Wiltshire. Now he released her and stepped back, a faint but satisfied smile playing about his lips as he noted her astonishment and her failed attempts to hide it.

“What on earth, Malfoy?!” she sputtered, looking around in dismay. “You’ve kidnapped me!”

“Hardly,” he laughed. “In fact, I’ve brought us to a place where we can work without interruption or interference and with all our needs attended to quite comfortably. Plus,” he added, “my family have the most comprehensive private library in the entire country, including histories of really old wizarding families, stuff going all the way back to the earliest written records.”

“In Britain. The diary was in French, remember?” Hermione cocked an eyebrow, folding her arms.

Draco smiled indulgently, as if she were a child who needed patient correction. “My ancestors came here from France seven hundred years ago, and they brought their family histories and other documents with them. I bet if we examine some of the oldest stuff, we might just find something we can use. And even if we don’t, there are loads of even older histories here that we can check.”

He began to walk over to one of the many massive bookcases, paused, and then turned to look back at Hermione, who was still rooted to the same spot.

“Come on, then!” he told her briskly, savouring both the moment and the last traces of uncertainty on Granger’s face. “Let’s get cracking, shall we? Need I remind you we’ve a job to do?”

 

*

 

 

The first and most pressing task was a careful examination of the diary itself. While Hermione settled herself on one of the sofas, pulling on her protective gloves again, Draco strolled over to the cavernous hearth. Helping himself to a handful of Floo powder, he tossed it into the fireplace, calling out, “Quintus Fitzhugh’s office, Fitzhugh International!”

There was a small explosion, and a few seconds later, Draco’s head materialised in Fitzhugh’s hearth, floating eerily within a corona of green flames.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” Fitzhugh sighed, shaking his head. “I did wonder where you and Ms. Granger had got to so suddenly. You might have had the courtesy to inform me _before_ you left.”

“My apologies, sir. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. My family’s library has quite a lot that might prove helpful to us in our research, so I thought…”

“No need to explain further. Take whatever time you need there. All in a good cause. Just keep me informed of your progress.” Quintus Fitzhugh waved a dismissive hand, distracted once again by the work before him on his desk, and then glanced up only to see Draco still looking back at him from the hearth. “Carry on!”

“Yes, sir. Thanks!” A moment later, Draco was gone.

Fitzhugh smiled cannily to himself. Things were moving along swimmingly, just as he’d hoped they would. Young Malfoy was taking the initiative and capitalising on an asset that would give him a decided advantage, at the very least psychologically if in no other way. It remained to be seen how the young lady from the Ministry would respond, but from what he’d observed so far, she would likely rise to the occasion and throw herself into the work with a vengeance. Together, their research would likely bear spectacular fruit, in turn rendering his acquisitions priceless.

Priceless. It was a word that Quintus Fitzhugh liked the sound of very much indeed. Humming cheerfully, he dipped his quill into the inkpot, his attention once again on the correspondence he’d been drafting.

 

*

 

 

“Malfoy, have a look at this.”

Hermione sat curled up in a corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath her and the diary in her lap. 

Draco ambled over from the large fireplace, pulling a hassock to the sofa and seating himself next to her. Leaning in, he glanced at the open page while slipping on his own gloves.

“Here.” Her index finger rested lightly on a page that held a fair amount of text written in a florid hand. “I’ve got the gist of it, but I’m sure I’m missing a lot.”

 

“ _12 Avril 1204_ ,” he read aloud, translating as he went. “ _I am to be married in a month. My sister’s husband has made the match for me. It pleases him to unite Montpellier and Carcassonne, thus strengthening Aragon’s border to the north. The Trencavels are a very old and powerful family in the region, and I know I should be grateful and pleased to be making such a good marriage, considering the dubious status of my birth. I expect Marie must have had some influence on her husband, but in the end, a king does what best pleases him, no matter what anyone else, even his wife, may desire. Never mind. However the match came about, I am grateful. _

_My fiancé is quite handsome from what I could tell, though our meeting today was brief. He is tall and has very blue eyes and a pleasing smile, though most of the time, he seemed so very serious. Or perhaps he is just shy? And he is young, thankfully, just nineteen – only a few years older than I. I shudder to imagine how different things might have been, had that disgusting old lecher’s suit gone forward. A very good thing his lands were situated in the wrong place for King Pedro’s purposes!_

_Raymond-Roger. It is a very strong and noble-sounding name, I think. I do hope I like him, and one day, perhaps, even come to love him, and that he will feel the same for me._ ”

 

The words, so vividly alive with the hopes and dreams of a young girl now long dead, had woven a spell around both of them as Draco had read them, so much so that when he stopped, the sudden silence was startling. 

“Gosh…” Hermione hugged herself as if she felt a sudden chill, burrowing back into the sofa. “It’s like a fairy tale, isn’t it… except it’s true. I wonder who she was?”

“Easy enough to find out, now that we know her fiancé’s name. Raymond-Roger Trencavel…” Draco frowned briefly. “Right. At least we’ve got a real starting point now. We’ll need to find out everything we can about him and his family.”

Hermione nodded avidly. “I expect this diary will reveal lots more as well. Oh my gosh, I just had a thought! Those rings… I bet they’re –”

Draco was way ahead of her. “Wedding rings. I was thinking the same thing, yeah. But we can’t assume.”

“No, you’re right,” Hermione agreed. “Okay, look. We’ve got a primary source here. You keep reading, and I’ll take notes.”

Surprisingly, the impulse to bristle at being given direction by Granger did not register. In its stead was a growing curiosity. There was a mystery to be unravelled here. The book and the rings were merely tokens of a much larger, potentially very powerful story, and Draco felt this deep in his gut. He sensed that Hermione felt it, too.

So, very carefully, Draco picked up the eight hundred-year-old diary and resumed reading and translating, while Hermione, now stationed at the large mahogany desk, dipped a quill and began to write.

 

*

 

 

Midnight

 

Eleven hours passed, during which time they worked their way through a fair section of the diary, Draco translating and Hermione compiling a sheaf of notes. What they found was spotty at best, with only oblique references to events that would need further corroboration. As a result, many reference volumes gradually found their way down from the shelves onto the capacious, old desk and the surrounding floor space, growing exponentially along with a variety of parchments, scrolls, and boxes filled with ancient documents brittle and yellow with age. Now, they were piled up like small, lopsided mountains, some of them already scaled and others still waiting to be examined.

Throughout the day, food had arrived at regular intervals via Tibby, the house-elf. Apparently, Hermione concluded, Draco had instructed him that such intense, demanding work would be dangerously depleting, and only frequent infusions of food and drink could stop them fainting dead away at any given moment.

When the large silver coffee pot reappeared just before midnight, accompanied by a bottle of fine, old brandy and a plate of French pastries, Hermione had fallen back against the sofa cushions, laughing helplessly.

“What?” Draco had been genuinely confused. He’d seen nothing funny.

“Well, I mean _really_ , Malfoy…” she’d gasped, unsure if the sudden pain in her side were from laughing or indigestion. “You’re joking, yeah? _More_ food? And drink? Merlin, is this how you always work at home? If so, I’m surprised you’re so fit!” Another glance at the mound of delectable pastries had sent her off into a fresh fit of the giggles.

Draco had ignored the question. They’d had some coffee, between them managing to polish off most of the pastries despite Hermione’s guilty groans. Now, as he filled two brandy snifters, Draco watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was still grinning to herself and chuckling quietly from time to time. It was probably the fact that they’d been hard at it for so many hours. They were both feeling a bit punch drunk by now. Still, it was… _interesting_ , watching cool, collected, utterly professional Hermione Granger lose control this way. Tears of mirth had left behind runny, little trails of mascara, now dried and smudgy and raccoon-like, and her cheeks were flushed a warm, rosy pink.

And Granger had said he looked fit. Though by now, she’d probably forgotten those words had ever come out of her mouth.

Handing her one of the snifters (and noting that she made no protest), he settled himself with his own next to her. “As it happens,” he said, “yes. This _is_ how I always work at home. A man has to eat, hasn’t he? And anyway,” he added, feeling slightly defensive, “Tibby likes looking after me when I’m here. I believe he misses me.”

“Oh dear, and did he make you all your favourite cakes when you were little? Tuck you up at bedtime with cocoa and digestive biscuits?” Hermione took a sip of the brandy and exhaled appreciatively, murmuring, “Mmm, lovely.”

“Yes, he did. Now and then.” Draco wasn’t sure whether he should find her teasing remarks amusing, annoying, or insulting. Not for the first time that day, he felt caught off guard and uncertain of how to react. “What’s wrong with that? I was a little boy!”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Malfoy!” Hermione sighed, leaning back against the sofa cushions and stretching luxuriantly. “It’s late and we’ve been working for _ages_. Whatever comes out of my mouth now is bound to be a lot of tosh. I’m exhausted, aren’t you?”

“I could do with some sleep, yeah.” But he didn’t move. Couldn’t move, really, his limbs feeling curiously leaden all of a sudden.

The same alcohol- and fatigue-fuelled ennui seemed to have hit Hermione. They sipped their brandy in reflective silence now, the weight of the last eleven-plus hours settling heavily on both of them. 

When the clock on the mantel struck the half hour, its brassy _bong_ cut the deep quiet, rousing them.

Tossing back the dregs of his brandy, Draco stood stiffly and yawned. “Bed.”

The word was like a sudden splash of ice water to the face. Hermione sat up, and Draco couldn’t help noticing the faint blush she was trying to pretend wasn’t there.

“Where? I mean, I don’t…” she began, embarrassed. “I’m not…”

Draco smiled nonchalantly. “Not to worry. We do have just a _few_ spare bedrooms in this rather large house. You’ll be quite comfortable. Surely,” he added slyly, “you don’t want to go home now, do you? We’ve made such excellent progress, working here. Everything is all set up and ready for tomorrow. We’ll get started directly after breakfast, shall we? Save loads of time. No commute. No distractions. Tibby!”

Instantly, the little house-elf materialised before them.

“What may Tibby do for Master Draco?” he asked eagerly.

“Show Miss Granger to the Rose Suite and see that she has everything she needs,” Draco instructed him. Then he turned to Hermione. “Sweet dreams, Granger. Full day tomorrow, I expect. Tibby will wake you in time for breakfast at nine.”

And he strode off, leaving Hermione to stare blankly after him, not sure what force of nature had just hit her.

 

 

*

 

 

The discreet knock at her door came at precisely half past eight the next morning. A moment later, Tibby scurried in to draw back the curtains, throwing open the French doors to the enclosed terrace beyond and letting in a swath of bright morning sunlight. Cool, flower-scented breezes wafted in from the gardens below to refresh the room.

Upon first opening her eyes, Hermione felt momentarily confused. Unfamiliar room, unfamiliar smells and sounds... And then she remembered where she was. Sitting up, she found herself in the centre of an opulent bed in a spacious bedroom. Cream-coloured wallpaper adorned with trails of tiny rosebuds made the sun-drenched, airy room seem like a garden in itself. The Rose Suite. An apt name for a lovely, tranquil room. It had a woman’s touch written all over it. Hermione wondered suddenly about Narcissa Malfoy and where she and Malfoy’s father might be. She hadn’t seen or heard a thing about them since she and Draco had arrived.

“Good morning, Missy Granger,” Tibby said with a quirky little bow, discreetly averting his eyes. “Master said I is to tell you that breakfast will be at nine sharp in the dining room.”

This statement, simple enough in itself, posed an immediate dilemma.

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea where the dining room is,” Hermione admitted with an embarrassed laugh. 

“Tibby will show you,” a deeper voice replied from the doorway.

Her head snapping up quickly, Hermione snatched up the satin sheet and held it to her chest. She’d slept in her underwear for lack of anything else, and the idea of Malfoy catching her in nothing but her bra and knickers was a bit alarming. 

“Sleep well?” he inquired pleasantly, still not moving but clearly enjoying the view. 

“Yes, thanks, very well indeed,” she replied, plastering a chipper smile on her face while still clutching the sheet, pulling it practically up to her chin. “Now, um... if you’ll excuse me...” Cocking her head to one side, Hermione pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

The message was clear and unequivocal. Draco gave a small, answering salute and disappeared from the doorway. Tibby backed away as well, murmuring words to the effect that his master was such a hospitable young man, happy to welcome all guests.

“All female guests, anyway,” Hermione muttered as soon as she was alone. “I’ll just bet he is.” And yet, tingly, not-unpleasant goose bumps erupted on her arms as she remembered Malfoy’s arresting gaze. 

Meanwhile, Draco strode swiftly down the hall to the grand staircase, the image of Granger, hair sleep tousled and her perky little breasts spilling from that lacy, barely-there bra, firmly stuck behind his eyes. It wasn’t an image he’d particularly wanted to cultivate where she was concerned, and yet there it was, adding fuel to a fire that had been quietly smouldering since she’d first sashayed into Fitzhugh International’s conference room the day before. 

Shortly afterwards, Hermione arrived in the dining room. She took a seat adjacent to Draco, who gave her a brief nod. 

“Are your parents here? I meant to ask earlier,” she began, taking a sip of coffee.

Draco shook his head, finishing a bite of jam-slathered toast. “No, they’re out of the country. At our summer place in Gascony. They won’t be back for another two weeks. Why?”

Hermione flushed, looking down at the bowl of mixed fruits before her. “It’s just... well, to be frank, I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of sitting down with your father at the breakfast table. The last time I was here...” She trailed off, glancing away once again.

Of course. He’d forgotten, hadn’t he. Hadn’t even thought. Not that it would have mattered regarding his decision to bring them here to work, of course. Knowing himself, he’d have done it anyway, even if he had remembered. Maybe even because he remembered. Except, of course, that he hadn’t, which gave him the right to apologise and actually mean it. 

“Sorry, Granger, I didn’t think. I hope it won’t get in your way and stop you working productively. We’re nowhere near that room.”

Hermione stiffened, her carriage becoming ramrod straight. 

“That was six years ago. I’m a professional, Malfoy. It won’t get in my way, I assure you,” she said, though the expression in her eyes told a very different story.

Platters of scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon arrived just then, along with more toast and crumpets oozing with sweet butter. Pots of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate replenished themselves automatically, and suddenly Draco had an idea. 

"Why not make it a working breakfast?" he suggested casually. 

Hermione didn't need persuading. Jumping up from her seat, she ran to the library for their notes, returning a few minutes later, eyes shining and eager to begin. 

Reaching for the hot chocolate, Draco topped off his cup, refilling Hermione’s as well. Truth to tell, he was feeling much the same.

“Right,” he began. “Let’s start with what we know so far, yeah? The family in question are the Trencavels of Carcassonne. Year: 1209. Raymond-Roger Trencavel is twenty-four. Married, with a very young son. Do we know how old Junior is?”

“Two years old, I believe.”

“Okay. Trencavel is viscount of Béziers and Albi, making him a vassal of ... who was it again?"

"The Count of Toulouse," Hermione filled in, checking her notes. "And as viscount of Carcassonne and the Razès, he’s also a vassal of King Pedro of Aragon, whose border is directly to the southwest of Carcassonne." 

Draco nodded, remembering now. "And married to Pedro’s wife’s sister, Agnes of Montpellier.”

“Half sister,” she corrected him. “Remember Agnes talks about it in her diary? She refers to her ‘dubious birth’ and later, she talks about them having different mothers. My guess is, she’s about twenty in 1209, because she mentions being a few years younger than he is. They’ve been married for five years at this point, and that’s the span of the diary as well. It just stops right there. As if they’ve dropped off the face of the earth. Or died.

“Do you realise,” she continued, half to herself, “that they were still teenagers when they got married? Hardly more than children. They should have had a long and happy life. But they only had five short years. I wonder –”

“Look, Granger,” he interrupted brusquely, ignoring his own feeling of disquiet. “Stop getting emotionally involved. We need to find hard evidence for what Agnes wrote, not get all weepy over shit that happened eight hundred years ago. Which, by the way, is fairly sketchy in the bits where she mustn’t have had time to fill in the details.”

“Or was too scared. And I’m not getting all weepy,” she countered, her chin lifting defiantly. “Nothing wrong with having a bit of compassion. I mean, think about it: the one thing we know for sure at this point is that Raymond-Roger Trencavel died at the age of twenty-four, imprisoned in his own dungeon. I can’t imagine anything sadder or more ignominious than that.”

“I can,” Draco muttered. Voldemort had had precisely that effect on his followers: “sad” and “ignominious” perfectly described the state to which people like his father had been reduced by their chosen association with the Dark Lord. “Pathetic” was apt, too. He would never forget the sight of his father towards the end of the war, virtually a prisoner in his own house, a shattered, groveling wreck of a man. Just the memory of it was bile in his mouth, bitter and hard to swallow.

If Raymond-Roger Trencavel wound up imprisoned in his own dungeon, he must have been just as weak and compromised. No man with even a shred of self-respect or strength would allow such a thing to happen. Though really, who was he to judge, Draco found himself thinking with a grim, silent laugh. He knew something about being weak and compromised too, didn’t he. He’d done it to himself, not that the admission was any comfort. That particular truth hadn’t exactly set him free. Instead, it just hung like a millstone about his neck, reminding him of his past mistakes and spurring him to push harder and put some real distance between his own rather ignominious past and the present. Sometimes, he wondered if he ever really would, or if that bloody millstone would hang on him forever.

While he was mired in these thoughts, Hermione had been watching him. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her natural discretion, and then, “Are you all right?”

His reply was tense. “Leave it, Granger.”

“Okay,” she said awkwardly. “Moving on, then. I think we should go back and have another look at the entries we marked. Here’s one.” She picked up Draco’s translation and began to read aloud:

 

_20 July 1209_

_My husband has returned from Montpellier, but it is not with good news. Abbot Arnaud-Amaury refused to accept his offer of cooperation and submission to the Church. I am not surprised. My husband has always been a friend to the Cathars, though one reason is known to very few and must never be discovered. Thank the gods, the abbot does not know the whole truth; however, he knew enough to recognise that my husband’s offer to turn his back on the Cathars was a fraud. It was a valiant effort, nevertheless, and the only thing Raymond-Roger could have done at this point. The northerners are coming, and he says they cannot be stopped. They will be at the gates of Béziers by tomorrow and here in Carcassonne in just days. At least he managed to persuade some of Béziers’ citizens to return with him and take shelter here. Most chose to remain in their homes._

_We hear that they have staunchly refused to hand over the Cathars among them to the Bishop, who surely seeks their deaths if what has happened to their numbers elsewhere is any indication of their fate._

_The people of Béziers have faith that the town will not fall. They believe the invading host are simply too many and will not be able to sustain themselves through a long siege. I pray this is so. If Béziers falls, Carcassonne is surely next._

_My husband’s plan now is to raise an army to fight the crusaders, but will he be in time? If not, dear gods, I fear we are truly lost._

 

“So.” She laid down the notes. “We know that Trencavel went to Montpellier in an attempt to protect his people, in particular the Cathars, from the advancing Crusaders. But why was the Church after the Cathars? Who were they, exactly?”

Draco flipped through some of his notes. “Dissident sect. Pretty radical, actually. They believed the Church was corrupt and refused to accept its authority, rejecting mainstream Catholic doctrine. Amongst other things, they were vegetarians, non-violent, and believed in reincarnation and equality between men and women –”

“Fairly progressive for their time, weren’t they,” Hermione remarked.

“Not entirely.” Draco’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “They thought sex was the devil’s work and encouraged celibacy.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her own mouth twitching. “What else?”

“Well,” he continued, “The Languedoc region was known for being politically independent as well. They didn’t consider themselves subjects of the French king, but instead, the Count of Toulouse –”

“Trencavel’s uncle, right?”

Draco nodded. “Right. And Pedro, the king of Aragon. This independence wasn’t too popular, either with Philippe, the French king, or the Church. The Cathars had been on the Pope’s shit list for quite some time, in fact. He couldn’t wait to stick it to them.”

“Heresy?”

“Exactly. What he wanted was to rid the Languedoc of them once and for all. The abbot was his attack dog. Arnaud-Amaury joined up with Philippe and the northern barons and mounted the Albigensian Crusade, ‘Albigensian’ from the town of Albi, where many Cathars lived.”

Hermione frowned. “Winding up, finally, in Trencavel’s lands. Very desirable territory, apparently. For the nobles, I’m guessing it was really just a land grab.”

“Right. So it didn’t matter what Trencavel said. He could’ve stood on his head, for all Arnaud-Amaury cared. Like you said, the northern barons were after his lands, and their agenda dovetailed quite nicely with that of the Church.” Draco shook his head in disgust. “Greedy bastards, the lot of them.”

“Wait…” Hermione pursed her lips, frowning. “That can’t be the whole story. Trencavel was more than just _tolerant_ of the Cathars. Agnes wrote…” She paused to thumb quickly through Draco’s translations. “Right. Listen. She wrote, ‘My husband has always been a friend to the Cathars, though one reason is known to very few and must never be discovered. Thank the gods, the abbot does not know the whole truth.’ Merlin, how did we miss that last night?”

Draco shrugged lightly. “Completely knackered. Both of us. Remember? It would’ve been pretty late by the time we got to that bit.”

“I suppose. Still – what could she have been alluding to, I wonder?”

“That, I think, is our assignment for today. Trencavel’s true connection to the Cathars could be the key to the whole thing. Or a good deal of it, anyway.” Getting to his feet, he stretched for a moment, then grabbed his notebook with one hand and his half-empty cup with the other. “Library,” he said briskly. 

Hermione nodded. It would be another long day.


	3. Chapter 3

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

They hadn’t been in the library more than five minutes when Hermione suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair, a hand flying to her mouth in dismay.

“How did I not see this?” she exclaimed. “Holy shit, am I _completely_ blind?”

Draco had been buried in a thick, dusty old volume – Remington’s Genealogy, a chronicle of old wizarding families in medieval Europe – and hadn’t noticed the gesture. But her words, uncharacteristically vulgar, caught his attention. 

He glanced over at her, mildly surprised and amused, but also genuinely curious. “What’s got your lacies in a twist all of a sudden?”

Hermione turned a fierce gaze on him. “We are so STUPID, both of us! Bad enough that we missed an obvious clue last night. But we missed something else as well, Malfoy, and it was right in front of our noses!”

She thrust out her hand, waving his own translation at him in agitation.

“It’s all _right here._ Yes, of course, we’ll need to corroborate this if we possibly can, but she’s practically spelt it out –that is, to anyone who knows what to look for!” Hermione fixed Draco with a look that was suddenly almost preternaturally calm and determined. “I think I know what Agnes and Raymond-Roger needed to hide.”

“Enough dramatics. What the fuck are you on about?”

Hermione drew a deep breath. “I think he was a wizard. And she was a witch.”

“How –” 

“Easy! It’s so obvious. I think maybe it got past us because we’re so used to the words that they just didn’t register, but listen again to what she said: ‘Thank the gods, the abbot does not know the whole truth.’ And then, later in the same entry, she says, ‘My husband’s plan now is to raise an army to fight the crusaders, but will he be in time? If not, dear gods, I fear we are truly lost.’ Doesn’t anything strike you about the wording?”

Automatically, Draco opened his mouth to reply in the negative and then stopped, the words getting stuck in his mouth. “Oh shit,” he murmured. “She said ‘gods,’ didn’t she. Not ‘God.’ Or a reference to Jesus, which you’d expect for a faithful Catholic. Because they weren’t Catholics at all, were they... They were... Wait. Were they Cathars, then?”

“If they had been, she’d still have said ‘God’ or ‘Lord,’ singular. You know what, Malfoy? I bet they weren’t Christians at all. Nevertheless, they still had ties to the Cathars. If I’m right and if, in fact, they did have magic, I wonder if just possibly, the Cathars themselves were not what everyone perceived them to be. Do you suppose the entire Cathar movement might’ve been a front? A ruse that wizards practicing in secret could hide behind?”

“Hang on, Granger.” Draco couldn’t help an incredulous smirk. “Are you suggesting that these radicals constructed an entire, dissident theology just for show, in blatant opposition to the Church? Hell, if they used something that inflammatory as a front, they might as well have pranced about giving the finger to every priest they saw. Nope, I don’t buy it. The Cathars were the real thing. What they did in openly breaking with the Church was seriously risky. Too risky not to really believe in what they were doing.”

Hermione heaved a deep sigh. “Oh well, it was a good theory.”

“Yeah, for about ten seconds,” Draco snorted. “Any other bright ideas, whilst you’re about it?”

“Hang on. You don’t disagree with my hypothesis about the Trencavels themselves having magic, do you?” Bristling slightly, Hermione folded her arms and waited. 

“No,” he answered slowly. “Actually, I don’t. I think you could be right. But the idea that they might’ve had magic and also consorted with a group that had made a huge enemy of the Church makes no sense. That’s going from the frying pan straight into the fire.”

“But look. We know, from passages in the diary as well as the histories we’ve looked at, that Raymond-Roger Trencavel was an exceptionally tolerant man for his time. He was well known for it –”

“And then it came back and bit him in the arse,” Draco muttered sourly. “What a surprise.”

“That was a really tragic irony.” Hermione paused, her eyes darkening. “But see, it wasn’t only about the Cathars. The Jews were under his protection as well; he even appointed them to run Béziers for him. The Church didn’t like that either. If anybody was regularly targeted by the Church, it was the Jews, and yet he protected them. He even got them all out of Béziers when he knew for certain that the town was about to be besieged. He did all that, despite how risky it was for him. You know,” she went on, “during the Inquisitions, many Jews made a show of converting to Catholicism just in order to survive, practicing their own faith in secret.”

“Your point?” Draco was losing patience. 

“Just _listen_. There’s a parallel. Why couldn’t the same scenario have applied to the wizarding community? If they knew what was good for them, they’d have lived as invisibly as possible. I’m sure many pretended to be Catholics. But maybe that wasn’t their only cover. Remember, the Cathars had been around for a very long time in southern France before the Pope decided to crush them once and for all.”

“So – relatively safe, then, for a wizard or witch wanting to disappear into the woodwork, and a lot easier to fake than pretending to be Catholic? At least until the Pope decided to shred the woodwork. Is that what you’re saying?” Draco shrugged. “Okay, yeah, _maybe_. I still think it’s a long shot. We’ll need proof.” He grinned lazily, cocking his head to one side and allowing his gaze to traverse the huge library and its many shelves of books, his scepticism evident. “Think you’re up to finding it, Granger?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise at the baldness of the challenge. Then she smiled serenely at him. “No worries, Malfoy. If the proof’s there, I’ll find it.” And with that, she turned resolutely back to her pile of books and parchments.

Granger was in a snit. Sweet. That meant she would leave him to his own devices and in peace for a while. He had his own pile of books to sort through, and his own theories to investigate. Hers were clearly a load of crap, or at least one of them was. The one about the Trencavels having magic was intriguing, admittedly, and very possibly true. He’d give her that much. Of course, where that would lead their investigation was anyone’s guess. But he doubted very much that hidden nests of wizards and witches masquerading as Cathars would be what turned up.

 

*

 

The morning passed quietly, both of them engrossed in their reading and speaking very little. Tibby appeared promptly at eleven with a tray of fruit, assorted sweet biscuits, and a pot of coffee.

“Elevenses, Master Draco,” he announced officiously, setting down the tray and then disappearing just as suddenly.

“Sometimes, I think Tibby believes he’s my mother,” Draco chuckled, half to himself.

Hermione glanced up and their eyes met for a brief moment. She smiled tentatively, and then both of them looked away again. The moment passed.

By dinnertime, both had compiled a fair number of additional notes. Dinner was a working meal, Draco having requested that their food be brought on trays so they wouldn’t lose any time.

“So, Granger – got anything?” he asked amiably, taking a bite of the tender, perfectly cooked filet mignon.

Hermione swallowed the forkful of asparagus tips she’d just taken and cleared her throat. “Well, remember that really terrible diary entry? Right after the one where she expressed worry about what would happen in Béziers.”

Oh yes. He remembered that entry, all right...

  
  
  
_24 July 1209_

_My heart is heavy today. I hardly know where to begin. We have had some dreadful news._

_Béziers is no more._

_Two days ago, twenty thousand were butchered, the entire town. All of them are dead now, Cathars and Catholics alike. The soldiers were brutal. They spared no one – not the elderly, not the sick, not even newborn infants. The killings took place everywhere, in homes and on the streets, even in the churches. And when the saintly Abbot Arnaud-Amaury was asked by the soldiers how to tell if a citizen were Catholic or Cathar, he said, “Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.” Kill them all. God will know His own. And so that is what the soldiers did. These were the words of a so-called man of faith, a holy man. In truth, he is nothing but a hateful, murderous, arrogantly pious piece of filth. If I could, I would take my husband’s broadsword, drive it into the priest’s belly, and skewer him, just as he ordered those soldiers to do to a town full of innocent people._

_After the slaughter was over, there was looting, though it is said that not much was taken before the burning began. Then, all of Béziers, that lovely old town, went up in flames. There is nothing left. It is just as my husband feared. And now, it falls to him to defend Carcassonne._

_I am so frightened. I want to run, to get away, but Raymond-Roger refuses to leave. He is determined to keep our home safe and inviolate and protect our people, and he believes he can. In truth, I believe he simply puts on a brave face for me and our baby son. Well, if he won’t leave, then neither shall I. For better or for worse. That was the promise we made each other five years ago._

_May the gods protect us._

 

“What about it? Did you find something more?” he asked now, pouring a glass of wine for himself and then holding up a second glass in silent question. She nodded, and he poured one for her as well.

“I did, yes: corroborating information that fills in the gaps of 22nd July, from a history of wizarding France by Guillaume de Barbarac. Everything Agnes wrote about happened. Her hatred of the abbot was entirely justified, and her account of what he did and said was quite accurate. But she didn’t know all of it. She couldn’t have done.”

Gritting his teeth, Draco braced himself. “What else was there?”

Reaching for one of the books, Hermione flipped the pages until she came to a marker she’d left. “Listen to this. It tells what happened once the town was torched:

‘The soldiery gradually backed out of the inferno of Béziers. They staggered past the bridge over the Orb and returned to where they had begun this strenuous afternoon of abattoir Christianity. As they watched, the city was consumed in flames, literally a funerary pyre for what scholarly consensus estimates at 15,000-20,000 victims.’”

“Abbatoir Christianity. A fitting description,” Draco observed grimly. “Must have been fucking hellish.” A small muscle began pulsing in his jaw. “We know what they did to _our_ sort over the centuries. Apparently, they were fairly even-handed with their barbarism. Heretics were at the top of the list, because supposedly, they threatened the Church from within.”

Hermione nodded, her face grave. “There’s more:

‘Everyone in the town, from graybeard Cathar to newborn Catholic baby, was put to death in the space of a morning. In the days before gunpowder, to kill that many people in so short a time required a savage single-mindedness that beggars the imagination. To the crusaders bitter about the lost booty of affluent Béziers, there was consolation to be had in knowing that they had done God’s work so efficiently. Personal salvation had been ensured by this stunning victory. In his letter to Innocent, Arnaud marveled at their success. “Today, your Holiness, nearly twenty thousand heretics were put to the sword, regardless of rank, age or sex,” he wrote. “The workings of divine vengeance have been wondrous.”’ 

“Imagine!” she said hotly. “Arnaud-Amaury was actually _boasting_ about the massacre he’d ordered! ‘Divine vengeance’! It’s sickening! People were ‘blinded, dragged behind horses, and used for target practice’ before being run through. No wonder Agnes detested him!” Hermione sank back in her chair, taking a fortifying gulp of her wine. 

“And no wonder those with magic needed to stay well hidden, however they had to manage it.” Draco’s frown deepened. “Did de Barbarac mention the Trencavel family at all?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not so far. He does discuss wizarding families in the region, but only those who were either accused, tried, and then burnt at the stake, or the few who managed to buy their way out of a death sentence.”

“Bribes.”

“Yes. Some in power were willing to look the other way – for a price.”

“Amazing, isn’t it, the power of money,” Draco remarked, and the contempt in his voice was thick. “Are we talking about clerics or public officials?”

“Both,” Hermione muttered disdainfully. “Their hypocrisy and greed were astounding. Holier-than-thou one minute and lining their pockets the next.” She sighed. “I might still come across something, though maybe the Trencavels were so deeply closeted that virtually nobody knew. I’ll keep looking.” Her words were a valiant attempt at optimism, but Draco didn’t feel too hopeful.

The steak on his plate still looked delicious, but his appetite had fled, the words he’d just heard and the images they evoked hanging over him like a pall. There was a barbarism and a devastating brutality in the lives of these people that sickened him, and the realisation was surprising. He’d been certain that nothing else could come anywhere close to the abject horrors of the wizarding war, but apparently, he’d been wrong.

Several hours later, as the mantel clock was striking midnight, Hermione stood and stretched, rolling her head and shoulders to ease their stiffness. 

“I’m all in,” she sighed, yawning. “Goodnight, Malfoy. See you in the morning.”

Draco had dozed off on one of the sofas, the book he’d been perusing lying open on his chest. At the sound of Hermione’s voice, he started awake.

The many candles were burning low by now, and they were playing funny tricks on his tired eyes. Just then, looking at Hermione, he could see lights glinting in her hair, and her skin had a creamy, golden patina. She was looking at him with huge, very dark eyes cast further into shadow by the flickering candlelight. For a strange, disconcerting moment, as he struggled to brush away the cobwebs of sleep, she didn’t look like Granger at all, but like some weirdly beautiful, Otherworldly creature.

“What’s the matter? Are you all right? You look funny,” she said, coming closer and peering down at him.

“Never better,” he mumbled, sitting up. “What are you doing?”

“Going to bed. My eyes will fall out of my head if I don’t get some sleep.” She turned away and then stopped, looking back at him pensively. “You said something earlier. I’m curious...”

“What are you talking about?” He was fully awake now, and feeling decidedly cranky. 

“You said something about the power of money. Remember?”

Reluctantly, he nodded. Stupid, to have made such a revealing slip. He’d never hear the end of it now. 

“What did you mean?”

“I should think it’s pretty obvious what I meant,” he replied, stalling for time. A bit of dissembling might shut her up.

No such luck, apparently. Hermione came closer still, eyes alive with curiosity and native intelligence. And persistence.

“Not to me. Because to _me_ , it sounded like you were being critical of what money can do, the power and influence it can buy. But that’s exactly the way you’ve lived your whole life. Even now, Malfoy money carries a good deal of weight. Have you changed your mind about it? Don’t you still enjoy the power it gives you?”

“Don’t be daft,” he replied, summoning the old, familiar scorn. The very question was absurd. He swept an arm around the vast library with its luxurious accoutrements: the gilding on the antique furnishings, the priceless collections of books, the expensive velvet drapes and rich leather upholstery, the beautiful Turkey rugs. “I’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t I. I mean, look at what we had for dinner tonight, just as one very small example. An excellent steak, a rare, old vintage wine... Who wouldn’t enjoy all that, and everything else money can buy?”

“Funny – I was sure I heard something quite different in your voice,” she murmured. “Never mind. I must’ve been imagining it.” 

A moment later, she had disappeared through the large, oaken doors, leaving Draco to reflect on what had just happened. She hadn’t imagined anything. But he was loathe to admit that. For one thing, how he felt about a lot of things, especially these days, was rather confused in his own mind. But even if it hadn’t been, the last person to whom he’d ever confess weakness or ambivalence was Hermione Granger. 

Later, as he lay in the centre of his very grand bed, moonlight streaming in through the sheer curtains that lifted and fluttered in the breezes, a face surfaced in his mind’s eye. Large, dark eyes searched his from a delicate, almost ethereal face framed by clouds of soft, chestnut-brown hair. Squeezing his own eyes shut, Draco turned over and yanked the thin coverlet up over his head.


	4. Chapter 4

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

31 July  
Saturday

 

Breakfast had been a hurried affair, neither Draco nor Hermione having the patience to sit through a leisurely meal. There was an unspoken urgency to their task now, and both felt it. 

“Here.” With a grimace, Draco pushed a weighty, old volume across the table to Hermione for her inspection. “Support for the final entries in Agnes’ diary. Go on. Read it.”

Hermione pulled the book towards her and located the marked passage. “On the first of August,” she read, “Arnaud-Amaury, papal legate and abbot of Citeaux, arrived at the gates of Carcassonne with legions of mercenaries, and the siege began. Though well fortified, the castle keep and town were vulnerable, owing to the many refugees who had found sanctuary there. By the seventh of August, the invading force had cut off Carcassonne’s water supply. Viscount Trencavel was approached to negotiate the terms of surrender. He agreed, setting out from his stronghold in good faith to meet with Simon, lord of Montfort, and Arnaud-Amaury.

“However, the offer of a parley was a calculated ruse to lure Viscount Trencavel out of the safety of his castle. Although he had been promised safe conduct, once the negotiations were concluded, he was seized, escorted under guard back to his castle and imprisoned in his own dungeon.”

Hermione stopped abruptly, sinking back in her seat in disgust. “Just give me the short version, Malfoy. I can’t read any more of this right now. Please.”

He understood her anger. The monumental injustice of such a fate had hit him hard too, although this confused him. Why should he care so much about what had happened eight hundred years earlier to a man who meant nothing to him? It only served to underscore what he already knew about human nature, the blackness and ugliness at its root. Nice blokes finished last. Everybody knew that.

He sighed. “Once they’d got Trencavel behind bars, that was pretty much it. Another few days and it was all over. Carcassonne surrendered. This time, though, the people weren’t killed, like in Béziers. They were expelled.”

“How very kind of the abbot not to slaughter everyone,” Hermione muttered.

“Yeah. Well. It was all about the looting. They’d blown their chance for that in Béziers, what with the massacre and the fire. They weren’t about to make that mistake again. They picked Carcassonne clean, assured by the abbot that they’d just secured their places in Heaven for all the good work they’d done. Simon de Montfort took Trencavel’s title, his castle, and all his lands, and got total command of the crusade.

“After that, the other towns in the area pretty much collapsed like a house of cards. And as we know, Trencavel later died in his own dungeon.” _Twenty-four years old. Exactly my age_. A slight shudder rippled through Draco, leaving him feeling vaguely chilled and hollow. “The official cause was dysentery.”

“Bollocks,” Hermione retorted.

“Exactly. Nobody believed it then, either. He was young and in perfect health. It would’ve taken more than a relatively brief time in the dungeon to kill him. The common consensus was that he was murdered.”

“Oh, he was murdered, all right,” she put in grimly. “It’s so obvious. They had to get rid of him. It was the only way Montfort could lay claim to his title and lands.”

“And the only way the abbot could finally eliminate a powerful adversary once and for all,” Draco muttered. “In agreeing to the parley, Trencavel signed his own death warrant.” 

Hermione turned away, her mouth a tight, tense line. “Well, I suppose we’ve got pretty much the whole horrid story now.” 

She sank back in her chair again, shoulders sagging and looking very tired, suddenly. “Such a waste, all of it. So pointless and _sad_.” She was silent for a moment and then looked up at Draco, her eyes narrowed. “Curious, isn’t it, that Agnes doesn’t say anything about Raymond-Roger’s death, though we’ve seen mentions of it in all the histories. The last thing she writes about is his incarceration, isn’t it?”

Draco shrugged. “Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to write about his death. Too painful.” 

Hermione wasn’t satisfied. “Get the diary and let’s have another look at that last entry,” she urged. 

“Okay.” Draco sighed, reaching for the fragile old journal. “Here it is:

  
  
  
_15 August 1209_

_The unimaginable has happened. Seven days ago, my dearest husband left our home to meet with the abbot and the northern barons. He was to have brokered the terms of our surrender. Five days ago, he returned in irons._

_I was not even permitted to see him before he was thrown into our own dungeon, a prisoner! I am told that the abbot justified his vile treachery by saying,“No faith is to be kept with one who has been so faithless to his God.”_

_Today, Carcassonne formally surrendered. It pained me to have to tell Raymond-Roger what has happened to our people without his protection. From my window, I watched them leaving, forced out of their homes and our town. They went on foot and practically naked, having only their thin under-shifts and breeches to cover themselves because they were not permitted to take more. At least they have their lives, my love reminded me, unlike those in Béziers. I did not have the heart to tell him that even as they left, the soldiers were brazenly looting every home and shop. Our beloved Chateau Comtal is safe only because Montfort wants it for himself._

_The time they allow us together is pitifully short and we are watched constantly. Already, he has grown so very thin. But his spirit burns brightly in his eyes, and when he looks at me, the love there is strong. He tells me to have faith in all that is good and just, that he will surely be free soon, but I cannot help the black despair I feel. What will become of our little boy? He is but a baby still, and may never know his father. And what of me? Am I to lose the man I love more than life? Am I to be claimed like chattel by Simon de Montfort, or packed off to a nunnery by the abbot? Dear gods, I don’t know which fate would be the worse! Even my sister’s husband has been unable or unwilling to help, though I have sent several urgent messages to him, begging for his intervention._

_There must be a way. I must find a way somehow.”_

 

Draco closed the journal carefully and shrugged once again. “That’s it. We only have the histories to rely on after that point. Agnes isn’t even mentioned later, except to note that she signed over her entire dowry and her son’s inheritance to Montfort, in exchange for a modest pension.”

Hermione’s eyes were suspiciously bright now. She remained silent for a moment, blinking several times. “I suppose,” she said at last, so quietly that Draco had to strain to hear her, “there really wasn’t any choice. It was the only way she could take care of her child. At least, they wouldn’t be penniless. But how awful that they took her husband and then everything else as well!”

“Except their rings. We’ve got those.” Draco nodded in the direction of the small box on the desk that awaited further inspection. “Time we had a closer look at them. Fitzhugh will want a proper appraisal as soon as possible.”

“Right,” Hermione murmured, subdued. “I’m ready.”

 

*

 

Under the concentrated light of their wands, eight hundred years’ worth of blemishes were apparent. Time had not been kind to the rings; there were minute fissures in the gold where dirt had crept in and lodged, the overall surface was severely tarnished, and several of the rubies had tiny cracks and chips. The gems themselves were in sore need of a proper cleaning as well. 

“Look!” Hermione exclaimed suddenly, turning the smaller of the rings over and holding it closer to the light. “There’s an inscription!” She thrust the ring at Draco excitedly. “Can you translate it? I’m not sure I’ve got it right.”

Taking the ring, he peered at it closely. “ ‘ _Se réjouissent déjà, je commence à aimer...’_ ‘Already rejoicing, I begin to love...’” Quickly, he checked the larger ring. “Same here.”

“What a lovely sentiment!” Hermione breathed. “I wonder where it’s from? Or maybe they wrote it themselves.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Draco turned the larger ring over in his hands, continuing to study it. “Look,” he said abruptly, beckoning Hermione closer with a tilt of his head. A triumphant grin teased at the corners of his mouth. “There’s something else. What do you see? Just there. Next to the inscription.”

Hermione bent her head for a closer look, squinting slightly. There was a tiny mark she’d initially taken for a scratch – no, two, one within the other – engraved in the metal. 

“It’s a T inside a... Oh! It must be the family crest! Oh my gosh, Draco, do you realise what this means?”

He did indeed. Potentially, this was huge. Proof positive that the rings – and by extension, the journal as well – were the genuine article would mean that this find was worth a bloody fortune. Moreover, _he’d_ been the first one to spot the Trencavel family crest, if indeed that’s what it was, a personal coup that would be quite a tidy little feather in his cap.

Smiling complacently, he went to return the ring to its box. As he did so, an odd sensation began in his palm. The ring began to radiate warmth, and then a tingling began as well. His head shot up and he stared at Hermione. Her startled expression told him instantly that she was experiencing precisely the same strange thing. 

“I can’t…” she began, frowning in confusion as she attempted to pluck the ring from her palm. “I mean… it seems to be –”

“What the fuck…!” he muttered, incredulous. “This is crazy… I can’t shift the bloody thing!”

Straining, Draco finally peeled the ring, now vibrating visibly, from his hand, dropping it with undisguised relief into the open, black box and then reaching to take its twin from Hermione’s open palm. The moment he did, however, his hand flew of its own accord straight back to hers, their fingers lacing and their palms pressed together tightly as if both their hands had wills of their own. This joining seemed to trigger a wholly new sensation: that of being at the vortex of a small but wickedly fierce tornado.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on, but this is some incredibly powerful magic!” he shouted. “Don’t let go!”

“As if I could!” Her voice seemed to be coming from a long way off, and yet, oddly, very close to his ear as well. 

The room was spinning madly now. Almost unbearably dizzy, Draco could feel Hermione’s hand gripping his with such ferocity that he was sure she would leave marks. 

And then abruptly, everything went black, as if an impenetrable curtain had been yanked down around them, shutting out the world. 

When light returned, the cascade of urine that sluiced down mere inches from their heads made both of them jump.

“ _Hé, regardez où que vous soyez, vous les gens! Sauf si vous souhaitez une baignoire!_ (Here, watch where you’re standing, you lot! Unless you want a bath!)” The woman holding the empty chamber pot and peering down at them from the upper storey of the stone house laughed heartily. She leaned on the sill, rolled-up sleeves revealing arms reddened from toil. “ _Si tel est le cas, j'ai beaucoup plus où cela est venu!_ (If you do, I’ve plenty more where that came from!)”

They were standing in the middle of a roughly cobbled street, surrounded by houses and shop fronts, market stalls and street vendors, everything higgledy-piggledy and leaning in crazily as if it were all about to topple in on itself. Chickens and pigs ran freely underfoot, complete with attendant squawks and grunts, and cart traffic lumbered slowly by, the wheels groaning as they traversed the cobblestones. One of them got stuck in a deep rut just as the cart was passing them. A stream of invective spewed from the driver, with much frantic waving of arms. 

“Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, gripping his hand very tightly and gazing around her, eyes huge. “Where...?”

“Mediæval France, if the sanitation and the pigs running loose in the street are anything to go by. Trencavel territory, I bet, if there is even the slightest logic to what’s just happened. Clearly, those rings were –”

“Spelled,” she interrupted tersely. “I know. I’ve worked that much out for myself, thanks.”

“Question is, who Spelled them?” Carefully, he extricated his hand from hers, flexing his fingers and then wiping his palm absently on the seat of his… 

_Leggings?_ Swiftly, he looked down at himself and then over at Hermione, who was staring at both of them, transfixed. 

A dark tunic, cloak, leggings, and boots now took the place of his jeans and button-down oxford. Reaching a tentative hand up, he found hair that was now shoulder length and a bit greasy. For that matter, there was dirt under his fingernails as well. What was he meant to be, a common labourer of some sort? Or was it just that personal hygiene was a disturbingly far cry from twenty-first-century standards?

For her part, Hermione was now clad in a long, powder-blue gown, its form-fitting bodice cut low and a hand-embroidered belt slung about her hips. On her head and draped over her shoulders, covering hair that had grown a good deal longer in the last ninety seconds, was a snow-white veil held in place by a thin circlet.

The magic that had got them there, spanning some eight centuries in the blink of an eye, had been potent indeed. All evidence of the twenty-first century had vanished. This was clothing that blended perfectly with that of the general populace surging busily around them. 

“Merlin…!” Hermione’s voice was fraught with astonishment she couldn’t disguise. 

“Sssh!” Draco hissed. “Let’s not be stupid, Granger. I’d like to stay alive long enough to get out of this, wouldn’t you?”

“Sorry,” she muttered, chastened, and then looked around thoughtfully. “Who are we?” she continued under her breath. “I mean, who are we supposed to be, for anyone who might ask?”

Good question. They needed an identity fast. 

“We need names that won’t seem weird or suspicious. I’ll be...” He paused, momentarily stumped.

Just then, a cart rumbled past, its driver snapping his whip at the draft horses that were hauling it.

“Come on, old Nick!” he yelled cheerfully, urging the horses on. “Hie there, Dreu, me old love! Move along, lads!”

Hermione looked at him, poker-faced, but there was a cheeky glint in her eyes. “Why not ‘Dreu’? Inspirational, I’d say. Horses are such noble animals. There’s even a bit of a resemblance.” She nodded, mouth twitching, in the direction of the horse’s mane and then at his own hair.

 _Touché, Granger._ He raised a coolly amused eyebrow. “Right, then. Dreu. And you?”

“Hmm... wait, I know! Helene. It was my grandmother’s name. Hélène, then, in the French. Hélène... “ She thought a moment longer, then had an idea. “... de Barbarac. But... we need to decide who we’re supposed to _be_ , right? I mean... how is it we’re together? Back then, things were pretty strict regarding men and women and their relationships.”

“Well...” His grin was decidedly wicked. “Reckon we’ll just have to pretend we’re married, yeah? Think you can stand the idea long enough for us to get out of here? Given my equine tendencies, I mean.”

Glancing sidelong at her, Draco had a sneaking suspicion that _he_ could handle the charade without too much difficulty. Granger looked rather fetching in that gown, with her slender waist and hints of creamy cleavage peeking through the folds of her veil. He had to fight the urge to lift it and have a good look at what was underneath.

Hermione gave him a crooked little smile. “I’ll manage,” she said tartly. “What now?”

Another good question. They couldn’t very well stroll up to the nearest passer-by and ask where they were and what year it was. Just as Draco opened his mouth to answer, there was a great commotion coming from down the lane. Riders moved along en masse, flanking a dignified young man who led the way. He wore a tunic of chain mail and a long, sweeping cloak clasped at the neck. His expression was grave as he reined his horse in, scanning the crowd in the street and raising a gloved hand for quiet.

“Good people of Béziers,” he began, his voice ringing out over the square. “I have news of great consequence. Two days ago, I met with the Abbot of Citeaux and the northern barons. Regrettably, they rejected my offer of cooperation with the Church. In making this offer, I had hoped to safeguard my lands and all my people. This is not to be. The army is advancing by the day and will surely be here before long, three days at most. They will demand that you give up the Cathars among you. I urge all of you to leave while you have the chance. Anyone who wishes to ride with me may come to Carcassonne and find protection within its walls. Jews of Béziers, you are in mortal danger as well. Return with me to the safety of Carcassonne, if you will. We ride at sunset. God be with you all.”

With a determined tug on the reins, the man Draco and Hermione now knew to be Raymond-Roger Trencavel rode off slowly, surrounded by his small entourage. The when and where were now firmly settled. And both of them knew only too well the fate that awaited every man, woman, and child in the town who stayed.


	5. Chapter 5

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

That evening

 

Darkness fell shortly after nine, but the motley party on horseback had already been riding for nearly an hour with six more to go.

Taking a route that wound through dense woodland, the group fanned out like a quiet, slow-moving snake, the only sounds the creaking of saddles and the soft clopping of hooves on the packed dirt. 

Draco had managed to procure a horse for the two of them, and now they rode, Hermione sitting side-saddle behind him and hanging on for dear life, along with refugees who had just left their homes and possessions, everything they had in the world, to face an uncertain future. 

Incredibly, along with the clothing that allowed them to blend in seamlessly, they could understand and speak Occitan, a version of French specific to the region. The subterfuge was complete and flawless. What remained a mystery was why the rings had brought them there in the first place.

“Why us?” Hermione’s warm breath ruffled his hair, tickling his ear. 

Her breath was pleasant, surprisingly so, considering the lack of a proper toothbrush or toothpaste. She smelled pretty good, too. Apparently, her guise as a gentlewoman afforded her more opportunities to bathe, whereas his required that he must stink like the rest of the men, no matter what their station or rank.

“Could be that anyone handling the rings would have wound up here,” he murmured. “Though I doubt it. Far too haphazard.”

“I think,” she whispered, “that the spell, whatever it was, must have been very specific, and that _we_ were the ones it was meant for, though I can’t imagine why.”

“Whatever the reason, we’ve got to get closer to Trencavel,” Draco said quietly. “We know what’s going to happen. We’ve got to warn him somehow.”

“Can we? I mean, are we meant to change history, or are we here for another reason? _Can_ we even change history?”

A valid question. That might not even be within the purview of the spell. And even if it were, who knew what might happen years hence, if the course of events were altered? That was playing with fire, and they both knew it.

“Point taken. But doesn’t he have a right to know what’s going to happen to him?”

He felt Hermione sigh and tighten her arms around his waist as she tried to find a more comfortable position. “Yes,” she replied slowly, “but we can’t just spill all that right from the off. He doesn’t even know us. We’d sound completely daft. We need to gain his trust first.”

By way of reply, Draco spurred their horse into a trot and pulled up alongside Viscount Trencavel and his men. Riding in silence for a time, he gradually manoeuvred closer.

“I wish to express our gratitude, my wife’s and mine, for what you have done for the people of Béziers, my lord,” he said eventually.

Raymond-Roger Trencavel turned his head to regard the stranger now riding alongside him. He saw a young man of his own age, decently dressed though not wealthy, possibly a merchant or tradesman of some sort. The pretty young woman riding with him seemed demure and refined. In some ways, she reminded him of his darling Agnes waiting for him at home.

“I have an obligation to all my people,” he said simply. “If I can protect them, I will.”

“You exclude no-one, though. There is risk in that. Most in your position would act otherwise.”

“I cannot speak for others, nor can I make them accountable. I can only bear the responsibility for my own actions. Too many have suffered needlessly because of who they are or where their people came from or what they believe. That will not happen here as long as I have the power to stop it.” Trencavel’s mouth was set in a tight, angry line, his eyes burning with the passion of convictions deeply felt. 

And then the passion slowly faded, and Draco saw something else: the prickings of despair and resignation that haunted him. “I fear,” he said quietly, “that this time, I no longer have that power. What is coming cannot be stopped. All of this?” He gestured at the train of refugees behind him with a sweep of his arm. “Too little, too late.”

“Are you certain, my lord?” 

Trencavel’s nod spoke volumes. “We will do what we can,” he sighed, “and then what we must, I suppose.” He turned to Draco with a weary smile. “And you, sir? What is your name and what is it you’ve left behind in Béziers?”

“I am Dreu de Barbarac, my lord. I am...” – he thought fast – “... an apothecary by trade. My wife is called Hélène. She tends our herb garden and assists me with the making of medicines.”

Trencavel nodded and smiled at Hermione, who returned his gesture with a deferential “my lord.” Then he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “As it happens, I am in need of a good apothecary and healer. The one we had since I was a small boy died recently, but he was an old quack anyway, I’ll warrant. I only kept him on out of respect for my father’s memory. The position is open if you will have it. You would need to live in the castle, though. Will that suit?”

Draco could feel Hermione excitedly pinching him through his tunic, and he nodded. “Very well indeed, my lord. Your offer is most generous. Thank you.”

“You’ll more than earn your keep before too long, I fear,” the viscount remarked grimly. “Never mind. Come what may, I am glad to know you, Dreu de Barbarac.” They travelled on in companionable silence for a time, and then he spurred his horse forward, joining his most trusted men to confer as they rode.

Draco turned his head slightly, dropping his voice very low. “You heard, then.” Silence. “Granger?” 

There was no reply. Hermione was sound asleep, the horse’s loping gait lulling her into unconsciousness. Her head rested against Draco’s back, her arms still wound snugly about his waist. Every once in a while, he could hear her murmuring restlessly as dreams overtook her.

They rode on. Carcassonne lay somewhere ahead in the darkness.

 

*

 

It was close to four in the morning when the iron gates to the walled Cité at Carcassonne were raised and the refugees straggled in. They were weary and heartsore, and not many words were exchanged. Viscount Trencavel turned his horse to face the rest and raised a hand for silence.

“Welcome to Carcassonne. My people will see that you have what you need, and that your beasts are fed, watered, and bedded down as well. I bid you all a good rest.”

A bevy of servants had emerged from the chateau and now hurried to see to the newcomers and their horses. Meanwhile, a handful of people followed the viscount as he strode into the castle, Draco and Hermione among them.

It was a massive structure built of ancient, grey stone, its towers and turrets rising up proudly over the battlements that surrounded them. Within its walls was a thriving city unto itself, outside them the so-called “lower town.”

Vaulted corridors, their decorative corbels and gargoyles silent and inscrutable, bespoke the castle’s great age. At this late hour, all was quiet, the footsteps of the newcomers echoing against the smooth, cool stone all around them. Suddenly, rapid, light footfalls sounded from a nearby staircase.

A slim, dark-haired girl flew down the steps and into Trencavel’s arms, embracing him fiercely.

“Oh my love, you are safe home! I feared I might not see you again!”

Trencavel laughed, holding her close and burying his face in her hair. “Sshh, sweetest girl. Did I not keep my promise?” He held her away then, his expression turning sombre. “I have much to tell you, but first...” He paused, slipping an arm around her waist and beckoning Draco and Hermione forward with a smile. “I want you to meet our new apothecary and his wife. They have travelled with me from Béziers. You worry so about the baby’s cough. These people are skilled. Mayhap they can help us. Master and Mistress de Barbarac, this is my wife, Agnes.”

Draco inclined his head respectfully, while Hermione dropped a small curtsey. “My lady,” both murmured, one after the other.

Agnes smiled warmly. “Welcome. It is a great comfort, knowing we have help at hand for our son.”

“How old is he?” Hermione piped up and immediately fell silent, unsure if, in speaking so freely, she had inadvertently overstepped.

“He is but two, a baby still,” Agnes began, clearly pleased to be asked.

“I am sure, sweetheart, that our new friends are quite tired after our long journey, as am I,” Trencavel broke in gently. “Time enough tomorrow for conversation. Tibaut!” 

A short, whiskery man scurrying along the corridor halted at his master’s call with a deferential bow. “Yes, your lordship?”

“Please see that Master and Mistress de Barbarac are made comfortable in the east wing; they will have the large suite with the adjacent workroom that Master du Breil used for his apothecary.” He turned to Hermione and Draco. “Sleep well, my new friends. Tomorrow we will talk. _Bon nuit_.” He grinned crookedly, nodding towards the pale light illuminating the nearby mullioned window. “Or should I wish you a good morning, perhaps?”

 

*

 

“It’s a large enough bed. Just... just stay on your side,” Hermione told Draco as she surveyed the bedroom of the suite into which they’d just been led by grizzled little Tibaut. “And... please wash, Malfoy. You –”

Draco sighed. “Stink, yeah. I know. Don’t remind me.”

A few minutes later, he stood over a basin filled with cold water, his tunic stripped off and his bare torso and arms a mass of goose bumps. There was a small, hard lump of soap – at least he thought it was soap – and a square of rough fabric meant to be a flannel. Despite the fact that it was midsummer, the castle was freezing, and he splashed himself vigorously, trying to hurry the process. He finished by dunking his head in the basin and attempting to wash his hair, giving up at last and towelling himself off.

Hermione had already washed her hands and face, removing her outer frock, or kirtle, to sleep in the chemise beneath. From the bed, she watched as he scrubbed himself clean. Nice, she found herself thinking as she surveyed the long, clean lines of his back, shoulders that were just broad enough, his taut belly and toned arms and chest. Now who’s doing the ogling, she thought, blushing. In the next minute, though, she burst out laughing as Malfoy pulled the flannel from his head to reveal long hair sticking out wildly in all directions.

“What?” he asked defensively, a hand creeping up to pat at his wayward locks.

She shook her head, still giggling, and lay back against the ornate headboard. Her own hair, now waist-length, was in one long braid cascading down her back, and she idly played with it as she watched him undress. 

It wasn’t in Draco Malfoy’s nature to be shy around women. He’d never had reason to be. He knew he was good-looking and that women wanted him. Yet now, for some reason, he felt self-conscious as he pulled off his leggings; worse yet, he had no idea what sort of underwear, if any, he might be wearing. 

A quick peek with his back turned and he breathed an inward sigh of relief as he discovered loose, linen breeches that were rather like pyjama trousers. He stole a glance at Hermione. He could tell she'd been watching him, though she looked away quickly now, cheeks pink.

At last, he slipped into bed beside her and blew out the candle. For a time, they lay there awkwardly together. 

“What are we going to do?” she finally asked in a small voice that quavered just a little. “I mean, look where we are. And we know what’s about to happen! In exactly three days, there will be a bloody _massacre_ in Béziers! And what about everyone here in Carcassonne? They’re facing a _siege_. A lot of people will die. Trencavel will be thrown into prison and murdered, Agnes will be widowed and nearly penniless, their little boy will lose his father and be disinherited, and the whole town, what’s left of it, will be forced out with barely the shirts on their backs, including us – assuming we don’t get killed! We don’t belong here. We still have no clue what we’re really doing here. How are we supposed to get back when we don’t even know what the spell was that got us here in the first place or who cast it, or anything? Maybe we’ll be stuck here forever!”

With a small wail, she rolled onto her side, burying her face in Draco’s bare chest and clutching at the waistband of his breeches. She was trying very hard not to cry; he could feel her shuddering convulsively.

It was all so sudden that Draco didn’t know quite what to do. Laying a tentative hand on her back, he began a light, circular massage, the only thing he could think of. Gradually, her breathing calmed. Still, she held onto him, though her grip loosened until her hand was resting lightly on the fabric just below his navel. He tried to ignore the way his skin jumped at her touch, focusing on her words instead.

The damnable thing was, he didn’t have any answers. Her questions were his as well. For all he knew, they might very well live out the rest of their lives here in 13th-century France. If they were very lucky, they would not be accused of witchcraft at some point and then burnt at the stake. Now there was a comforting thought. Home, jobs, families and friends, their _lives_ – all of it seemed so far away, almost like a dream. And some really, _really_ bad things were about to happen.

Gathering her close, he brushed at her cheeks with the ball of his thumb. “Merlin, Granger, get a grip, will you?” he joked, though his attempt at levity felt hollow. “We have magic. We’ll find a way out of this, you’ll see. Get some sleep now, yeah?”

Somewhere, a cock crowed, the light pouring in through the diamond-shaped panes growing steadily brighter. Before long, Hermione dozed beside him. For Draco, sleep remained elusive.

 

*

 

The news, when it came five days later, was a dreadful shock to all but two members of the household.

When the rider burst into the Great Hall, breathless and agitated, not waiting to be announced, the company was at supper. Everyone fell silent, waiting for Trencavel to speak. For the first few seconds after the terrible news had been delivered, he said nothing at all, his eyes unreadable.

Then, slowly, stiffly, with tremendous self-restraint, he set down his goblet and rose, face bloodless. 

“See that this man is fed and his horse attended to,” he said woodenly to nobody in particular, though several servants rushed off at once. Then he strode out of the room, his jaw set and his eyes black with anger. 

Agnes rose from her seat immediately, hurrying after him with no attempt to hide her distress.

“We’ve got to do something!” Hermione hissed, clutching Draco’s sleeve. “Go after him!”

“Wait,” he told her. “Not yet. He’ll have his advisors with him now.” 

The opportunity came two days later. Draco and Hermione were on their way to the workroom with baskets of newly harvested herbs, when they spotted Trencavel pacing in a small room off the main corridor. 

Hermione cocked her head in the viscount’s direction with a pointed look.

“Right,” Draco muttered, handing her his basket. “Meet you upstairs.”

Cautiously, he ventured in. “Beg pardon, my lord. Is there anything I might do for you?”

Trencavel turned a tired smile in his direction. “Not unless you have something in that workshop of yours that could make the entire horde disappear.” He let out a small, harsh laugh. “Even I am not that talented.”

Draco looked at him sharply. “My lord?”

“A wishful jest,” the viscount replied hastily. “I meant nothing by it. My worries have addled my speech.”

“Your army is now in place, my lord?” 

“In a manner of speaking. Many have offered to stand with me and more are coming, but not enough, I fear.” Trencavel sighed, glancing out the window at the warren of narrow, cobbled streets in the distance below. “So many people. How can I protect them all?”

Draco chose his next words carefully. “Perhaps you cannot. Perhaps that is more than one man can possibly do against such overwhelming odds.”

Trencavel’s chin came up defiantly. “I have a duty. It is an ancient one. I will not forsake them, even if it means my life!”

And it will, Draco thought heavily. If he were in Trencavel’s place, he’d take his little family and get the hell out of there as fast as possible and never look back. The town could bloody well fend for itself.

Hermione was tying bunches of cut herbs and hanging them to dry when Draco came in. She looked eagerly at him, her face falling when she saw his expression.

“He’s determined to be a martyr,” he told her, still mystified and oddly unsettled, both by the conversation and Trencavel himself. “I don’t get it.”

“He’s a good man,” she replied simply, laying the herbs down and gazing at him. “What else would you have him do, run?”

“Hell, yes. _I_ would. He said something, though – let it slip, really – and it made me wonder...”

“What was it?” 

“He asked if we had anything here to make the crusaders disappear. Then he muttered something about not even being that talented himself. Which he then tried to explain away as a joke, though I don’t think he was really joking.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “Well,” she said at last, “it isn’t exactly a confession, is it. But just maybe I was right about them all along. We’ve got to find out.”


	6. Chapter 6

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

30 July 1209  
Thursday morning

 

“Mistress de Barbarac?”

Hermione turned from the worktable, where she was grinding dried peppermint leaves in her mortar. Mixed with a boiled syrup from cherry bark, it would be the second batch of a soothing medicine for young Master Trencavel’s cough that had already proven efficacious.

“Please.” She smiled at Agnes in welcome. “Come in, my lady.” 

“Is that for my baby?” Agnes peered over the jars and bottles to see what was in the mortar. “He used to cough so, especially at night. Sometimes I feared he would be unable to stop. Master du Breil’s efforts failed completely, but your elixir has really helped. In truth, I thought that old Master du Breil was a charlatan. My husband thought so too.” She giggled. “Betimes, we’d pitch his medicines out the window and make our own. I could not abide most of his concoctions. Swill and fakery.

“You know,” she went on, continuing to inspect the many salves, powders, syrups and poultices, “I have done a bit of work with herbs myself. I learned from my sister when I was very young.”

Hermione looked up with interest. “Did you?”

Agnes nodded avidly. 

“And Viscount Trencavel... he is versed in the healing arts as well?” Hermione busied herself with the grinding, carefully offhand in her manner.

“Passing fair,” Agnes began, and Hermione sensed that her guard had abruptly gone up. “Not like Master de Barbarac, of course. But he knows enough.” 

“Some knowledge can be dangerous, though,” Hermione said quietly. 

Agnes darted a furtive glance at her, clearly alarmed. “What do you mean?”

“No harm, my lady, I assure you. It’s just... my husband and I are so grateful to be here and safe.” Hermione took a deep breath and then plunged ahead, sensing – praying – that the gamble she was about to take would be worth the risk. “For so long, we’ve lived as nomads. There are those who do not understand or approve of our... our ways. Because of that, they would see us dead.”

“What ways are those?” Agnes asked softly, wide eyes fixed on Hermione’s face. 

“Those of our mothers and fathers before us. Ancient ways, of earth and sky and forest grove.”

“ _Magic_.” The word slid out of Agnes in a whisper. “Then you are... _oh_...” She backed away, sitting down heavily in the nearest chair and covering her face with her hands. 

Hermione felt a rising panic, and for a long, terrible moment, she was sure she’d made a dreadful mistake. And then Agnes raised a tear-stained face to her and smiled.

“You _are_ , then? Truly?” Rising, she came to Hermione and clasped her hands.

Hermione nodded, raising a finger to her lips and barely able to keep from beaming with relief. “You must keep our secret, my lady.”

“As you must keep ours,” Agnes answered soberly. “Else we will all be in grave danger.”

Hermione had to be sure. “His lordship, too?” 

Agnes nodded. “It was why my sister Marie championed the match. She knew from others in our community that Raymond-Roger practiced the old ways. My sister’s husband rules Aragon directly to the south. He wanted the marriage for other reasons: political alliances and secure borders. Raymond-Roger was glad to accept on all counts.”

“And… you are happy, my lady?” 

Agnes gave her a brilliant smile. “I love him with all my heart, Mistress de Barbarac.”

“Hélène.”

“Hélène, then. I’m so glad we shall be friends. But now I must go.” Her gaze fell on the small phial that Hermione had filled. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Watching her go, Hermione’s mind began racing in a hundred directions. She couldn’t wait to tell Draco; no doubt Agnes would be eager to tell her husband such momentous news as well. After that, they would be free to work more actively on Raymond-Roger and Agnes’ behalf. 

And just maybe they would finally discover the secret of the rings.

 

*

 

“Malfoy, I was right! They _do_ have magic! Agnes as much as admitted it to me. And… well...” Hermione hesitated. “I told her about us. It was the only way I could get her to open up.”

Hermione had seized Draco by the arm as he came into their room, pulling him in and quickly closing the door. Her face was flushed with excitement.

Hearing this, his eyes grew very wide. “You told her... Granger, have you gone completely round the twist? _Nobody_ can know about us. They _burn_ people like us! And you can forget about due process. They care fuck all about that.”

“I _know_ , okay? But look, I’m sure it’ll be all right. They’re not about to tell anyone. They’re in the same boat, after all! And this way, we’re free to really help them. No clue how yet, exactly, but there must be something we can do.”

“I hope you’re right.” Draco’s expression was bleak. “We’re already in deep enough shit as it is.”

Hermione nodded grimly. What he’d said was undeniable. “Well, what now?” she asked. “In two days, the crusaders will get here and start the siege, and only another six after that until they’ve cut off the water supply and Trencavel leaves to negotiate with Montfort and the abbot. That’s not a lot of time.”

Draco thought for a moment. “I’ve got to talk to him. Make him see reason.”

“About what, exactly?”

Damned if he really knew. 

“There must be a way we can let on what’s in store for them, without them thinking we’ve lost the plot,” he said slowly.

“And persuade him not to fall for the abbot’s trick. He can’t leave here. It’s the only place he’s safe!” she declared.

Draco shook his head. “No point. Even if we did manage to convince him not to leave, the end result would be the same. Eventually, Carcassonne would have to surrender because they couldn’t hold out any longer, and Trencavel would still end up behind bars and then dead. They want his lands and the power and wealth that go with them. You know that’s what this is really about. That, and shutting him up for good. Besides,” he reminded her, “we can’t change history. You know that, too.”

He was right, of course. Hermione turned away, chin trembling and her eyes filling with angry tears. What was it all for, being transported back eight hundred years, if there wasn’t a thing they could do to help? It seemed like a pointless and cruel exercise, being brought there merely to witness the terrible things they already knew were coming and were helpless to prevent.

Watching her like this, seeing the awful sadness and confusion on her face, was strangely moving. And there was a certain stark beauty etched in her sorrow that took Draco by surprise. He found himself wanting to gather her in his arms and comfort her somehow. Just as he took a tentative step towards her, she whirled around to face him, eyes blazing.

“There has to be more to it! We’re here for a _reason_ , Malfoy. We _must_ be. We just have to work out what it is!”

And then she began pacing, her face a mask of concentration. Draco knew that expression well by now. He sighed quietly. She didn’t really need whatever he might have offered.

 

 

*

 

 

31 July 1209  
Friday evening

 

Trencavel was conspicuously absent from supper that night, and a pall fell over the members of the household at table. Later, a servant appeared at the workroom door with a summons from the viscount.

“He wants to see me,” Draco told Hermione, who sat by the fire, watching the flames pensively. 

Hermione looked up at him, nervous excitement flaring in her eyes. It could mean only one thing. “He knows. She’s told him.” A moment passed in which both of them seemed frozen. Then she jumped to her feet. “Go!” she whispered urgently.

Draco didn’t need telling twice. He hurried out the door, following the servant through winding corridors that led, eventually, to the Trencavels’ private apartments. Bowing, the servant left Draco at the door.

He knocked.

“Come!” 

Pushing the heavy oaken door open, Draco entered the lavishly appointed anteroom. Trencavel sat in a chair of carved ebony and velvet, his head cradled wearily in his hand. He looked up as Draco came in and gestured for him to sit. Two goblets of wine had been poured.

“You have not been entirely honest with me, it seems,” he began, mildly enough. 

Draco opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Trencavel held up a hand. “If what my wife tells me is true – and if it is, I fully understand your silence – we four have much in common. You may speak freely. We are quite alone here.”

Draco nodded. “It is true, my lord.”

Trencavel studied him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Then you will perhaps appreciate the position in which I find myself now. I am unable to use my gifts, because doing so would put me and my family in jeopardy.

“All my life,” he went on, “I have had to hide what I am. My family are blessed with tremendous wealth and power, but in one very basic respect, we are prisoners, hostage to the vicious lies, prejudices, and fears generated by Rome. They fear those who live and believe differently– and so they seek to stamp us out. All of us.”

“But... how have you carried on for so long?” Draco couldn’t resist asking. “It’s different for Hélène and me. We’re ordinary people. We can avoid drawing attention to ourselves. But someone in your position...”

Trencavel sighed deeply, raking a hand through his long hair. “You see the difficulty. We are scrutinised that much more closely because we are known. Speculation and gossip are rife at the best of times. Servants talk. Rumours spread. We must always be models of convention and propriety regarding our habits and presumed beliefs, and take care never to slip.”

“So... for the sake of appearances, you are Catholic?” 

The young viscount nodded. “Only for the sake of appearances. For generations, my family have protected the Cathari, not because we are Cathari ourselves – we are Druid, as you are – but because we support their right to religious freedom. In return, they have permitted us to move freely amongst them, celebrating our own sacred rituals and practicing our craft in secret.”

Bloody hell. Hermione had been right. 

“Forgive me, my lord, but... hasn’t Rome persecuted the Cathar community for years?”

“A reasonable question. Yes. Though only in the last several years has the Pope been quite so driven to destroy them. On the other hand, the abbot has _always_ detested them.” Trencavel chuckled ruefully. “I don’t know whom he hates most: Jews, Muslims, suspected witches, or accused heretics like the Cathari.”

They fell into a pensive silence for a few moments, the only sound the spit and crackle of the logs in the large hearth. 

“They will be on my doorstep by morning, you know,” the viscount remarked quietly, breaking the silence.

“My lord... should you not leave with your family while you still can? If Béziers is any example, they mean to take everything.”

“Tempting, I admit. But how would it be if I fled like a thief in the night? There is no honour in that. Chateau Comtal has been in my family for 142 years. I cannot desert it. Nor can I desert my people. They are under my protection and may surely depend upon me for that much, at least. No,” he sighed, “flight is not possible. Things must play out as they will.”

It always came down to choices, Draco reflected. So often in his own life, he had made bad ones when he might have done the honourable or brave thing instead. He hadn’t been brave. He had been weak, doing things he knew were wrong and for all the wrong reasons, following his father’s path and convincing himself that it was right or at least expedient, thus justified. Until there were no more choices and he was trapped in an ugly, frightening morass of his own making. Yet here was a man who, faced with imminent catastrophe, had chosen to confront whatever came with grace, dignity, and courage, his power and influence only useful insofar as they might help those who lacked both.

“My lord,” he said abruptly, the words surprising him even as they tumbled from his mouth, “it would be my honour to fight alongside you, if it should come to that.”

Suddenly, Trencavel looked deeply tired. He regarded Draco with a rueful smile. “We cannot use our magic. You understand this?”

Draco nodded.

“Then the honour will be mine, Dreu de Barbarac. If it should come to that.”

 

 

*

 

 

6 August 1209  
Thursday

 

Events unfolded precisely as Draco and Hermione had known they would. 

Abbot Arnaud-Amaury, Simon de Montfort, and masses of crusading soldiers arrived outside the gates of Carcassonne on the first of August, and the siege began. The citizen army that had rallied around Viscount Trencavel fought with great valour, though they were woefully outnumbered, as the viscount had anticipated. Draco stuck close to Trencavel’s side, the better to protect him, not that he had much faith that he really could without magic. His ability with a sword – a far cry from duelling with a wand! – was non-existent, and he didn’t fare much better with a mace or crossbow. 

Hand-to-hand combat was frenzied and relentless as the invaders scaled the walls of the fortifications, screaming bloody murder, and he never knew from one second to the next if it would be his last. When the crusaders brought in the trebuchet, sending flaming projectiles soaring over the battlements into the Cité, things took a very bad turn, the fighting force within becoming increasingly demoralised as the casualties and devastation mounted.

For her part, Hermione was kept frantically busy, creating healing potions, poultices, and salves to treat the many grievous injuries. She didn’t see Draco for days on end and gradually began to fear he might be dead. Working tirelessly alongside her, Agnes tried to offer comfort and reassurance, although in truth, Hermione’s fears starkly mirrored her own. 

At twilight on the sixth day of the fighting, a group of newly injured men were brought to the workroom, doubling now as a makeshift infirmary. Lacking beds, they were wrapped in blankets and laid on the stone floor. The two young women began to examine them, moving from one to the next to assess their injuries. 

The carnage was horrific. Limbs were severed, eyes gouged out, throats slashed, and major organs speared by unforgiving blades. One man’s nose had been hacked off and it dangled by a thread from his face while he screamed in agony. Hermione did the best she could, wrapping his head in bandages made from torn sheets and dosing him with a sweet syrup laced with belladonna and poppy flowers to put him to sleep and stop his suffering, at least for a while.

Finally, she arrived at the last man. He lay curled up on his side, an arm thrown over his head, obscuring his face. 

“Where are you hurt, Monsieur? Can you speak?”

There was no answer. Gently, she lifted away the arm, the better to gauge his situation. 

It was Draco.

Rocking back on her heels, Hermione gasped, horrified. For a long, terrible moment, she felt paralysed. Then he moaned in pain, and she was brought back to herself.

He murmured something unintelligible, but she could see the evidence for herself. There was a long, jagged, worryingly deep gash on his face from very near his right eye down to the corner of his mouth, dark blood oozing from it and congealing on his cheek. 

If only she had her wand… if only she could heal him the way she knew best! But that was impossible. She would have to treat him using all the knowledge of herbology she had and a good dose of her own intuition as well.

Stop the bleeding. That was first. And then clean the wound. Ease the pain. Quickly she searched their stores of supplies, grabbing jars containing leaves of yarrow and lamb’s ear and a decoction of yarrow mixed with purple coneflower root. Pressing the tender leaves to his face as a poultice, she held her breath, hoping they would stanch the bleeding. Gently, she raised his head, slipping spoonfuls of the potion down his throat to ease the pain, ward off infection, and make him sleep.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, he eventually fell into a restless sleep. The night was long, the groans and wails of the injured and dying piercing the silence. Hermione dozed fitfully, always waking with a sense of alarm and rushing to make sure Draco hadn’t bled to death while she’d slept. 

At dawn, as she bent over him, pale and haggard with exhaustion, he opened his eyes at last. 

“It’s really you,” he whispered. “I wasn’t dreaming, then.”

She smiled, feeling dangerously close to tears. “No. How do you feel? You’ve got a wicked cut on your face. What happened?”

Draco frowned and then grimaced in pain. “Bastard leapt over the battlements and came at me with a dagger. He managed to cut me first, but I slit his throat.”

“Was… was it awful? Out there. What –”

“You don’t want to know. So much blood. _Piles_ of corpses. Body parts everywhere…” He squeezed his eyes shut as if to blot out the images behind them.

Gradually, his features relaxed, the pain easing as another dose of the potion took effect. Asleep, he looked so young, so peaceful. Impulsively, Hermione leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. He would survive. He just had to.

 

 

*

 

 

7 August 1209  
Friday morning

 

Draco awoke to find Trencavel kneeling over him, worry and fatigue deeply etched in his face. 

“So you are alive, then, Dragonet le Preux,” he said softly, smiling. 

Draco peered up at him woozily. “Who?” 

The young viscount grinned. “Little Dragon the Valiant. That was you. Lunging and slashing like a man possessed. Had you ever used a broadsword before? Or a mace? A crossbow?”

Draco shook his head.

Trencavel chuckled. “I thought not. But your bravery and heart were plain. I came to thank you for your good and loyal service to me.”

Draco struggled to raise himself to a sitting position and failed, collapsing back to the floor. “What’s happened?” he asked, and then more urgently, “What’s the date?”

The viscount looked puzzled. “Friday, the seventh. Why?”

Draco persisted. “Has something happened?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I have received a communication from the abbot and Montfort, requesting my participation in a parley to set the terms of our surrender. Civilised of them, isn’t it, to invite me.” He smiled grimly. “I expect I always knew it would come to this, but I had to try.”

“Are we really at the point of surrender, my lord?”

Trencavel nodded wearily. “They have cut off our access to fresh water. Our hands are tied. There is no longer any alternative except surrender, if the people are to live. Now, it is up to me to make certain they do live – _everyone_ , not just some.”

His meaning was clear.

“My lord...” Draco hoisted himself up on one elbow, the secret knowledge that only he and Hermione possessed rising in his throat like bile. “I fear it is a trap,” he blurted out, unable to help himself. “Do not trust them!”

Surprised, the viscount raised a wary eyebrow. “Have you some intelligence that I lack?”

Caution and common sense returned then. “No, my lord. Just a feeling.”

Trencavel nodded slowly, his smile bitter. “I share that feeling.”

“Then... why go?”

“Because,” the young viscount replied, “it is my only chance to assure my people’s safe passage. The terms of a parley, once agreed to and witnessed, are binding. If it is a choice between mass slaughter, as at Béziers, or expulsion, I would say the latter is the better alternative by far, would you not?”

It was difficult to argue with that.

“But...” Draco persisted. “What about you? What if –”

Trencavel leaned in closer. “Do not fear for me,” he whispered. “I have a plan. I will share it with Agnes if and when the need arises, and in turn, she will tell you and Hélène. And now, Dragonet...” He got stiffly to his feet and smiled down at Draco. “Rest and heal. We will see each other again, I feel certain.”

Draco watched him go, a deep sense of foreboding gnawing at him. He had tried, knowing full well the futility of his attempt. It was out of his hands now.


	7. Chapter 7

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24 August 1209  
Late Monday night

 

“Ssh! We must take care not to alert the guards!”

Agnes put a finger to her lips and then beckoned Hermione and Draco to follow her. They were deep in the bowels of the castle now, following long disused, secret passageways unknown to any but the Trencavel family. Wraith-like cobwebs fluttered before their faces in the darkness, clinging to their skin and clothes. 

Dank and narrow, the ceilings nearly low enough to brush the top of one’s head, the warren of corridors formed a hidden labyrinth, a castle within a castle. The three moved stealthily along a passageway separated only by a wall from the corridors frequented by Montfort’s men, who were billeted in the lower castle and charged with guarding the dungeon – and its prize inmate.

Two weeks had passed since Trencavel’s incarceration. Only Agnes had been permitted to see him, and then only briefly, but long enough for him to communicate the plan to which he’d alluded before his fateful departure from the castle. She had then filled Hermione and Draco in. Here was a part of the story not recorded in the history books. It could change everything.

Finally, they reached an iron door. Agnes motioned to Draco to pull it open. It was heavy and resisted at first, but eventually, he managed to shift it. It opened onto a black void, their candles barely shedding enough light to pierce the almost palpable darkness, but gradually, they were able to discern a set of treacherously narrow stone steps.

Agnes beckoned to them once again and then quickly disappeared up the steps. 

“Go on, then,” Draco whispered to Hermione. “I’m right behind you.”

“Thanks, Malfoy.” Hermione smiled nervously and began her ascent. She could feel him close behind her, and then his hands were at her waist, guiding her.

At the top of the steps, they crawled through an open trap door in the ceiling into a dimly lit, cramped space. 

“Thank the gods. You’re here at last.”

The young viscount was sitting on a crude straw pallet a few feet away. He was filthy, thin, and deathly pale, a shadow of the man Hermione and Draco knew. He was also alone in the dense quiet of the dungeon.

“Where are the guards?” Draco asked, looking about apprehensively.

“They’ve just left. The next pair arrives in twenty minutes. I don’t suppose they see me as much of a flight risk.” He drew Agnes close and kissed her. “Did you bring everything we’ll need, my love?”

She nodded, holding up a small satchel. “Yes. It’s all here.”

Then Trencavel gazed at Draco and Hermione, his eyes warm with affection and gratitude. 

“Thank you for what you are doing for us. Because of you, we may make our escape with far less risk.”

“We’re ready,” Draco said quietly, and Hermione murmured her assent. 

Meanwhile, Agnes had unlaced the satchel. Now, she slid her wedding ring off and Trencavel did the same, dropping his into her open palm. She closed her fingers over them, shutting her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears.

“Take them.” Smiling bravely, she placed both rings in Hermione’s hand, pressing Draco’s palm to hers. “We cannot, because they would identify us instantly. Wear them for now and keep them safe. I have enchanted them so that one day – many years from now, mayhap –they will draw someone back here to learn the truth of what has happened to our family. Someone meant to know.”

Hermione and Draco exchanged a long, pointed glance as they slipped the rings on. The familiar tingling, warming sensation began almost immediately, and then the rings themselves began to glow.

Agnes and Trencavel stared wordlessly at their friends and then at each other. Suddenly, they understood. 

“Your rings brought us here from very far away indeed.” Hermione spoke softly, but her heart was in her throat. “Can they –” 

“Take you back? Yes. The enchantment works both ways. Just ask for home.” Agnes whispered something in Hermione’s ear, smiled, and then turned to her husband, clasping his hands in hers with evident joy and relief. “We will _not_ be forgotten, my love, nor will the truth.”

“It would appear,” Trencavel murmured, still astonished, “that we are doubly in our friends’ debt. But the time grows short. We must begin.”

Drawing a marked phial from the satchel, he passed it to Agnes and took out a second one, also marked, for himself.

Draining the contents, they waited. In ten seconds, the changes began, and after a minute, the transformations were complete and flawless. There was an eerie silence as Draco and Hermione gaped at mirror images of themselves. 

“Oh, perfect!” Hermione breathed, still staring. 

Then Agnes grabbed her husband’s hand. “We must hurry now! Mathilde waits outside the gates with the baby!” To Hermione, she added anxiously, “Drink yours, and then we will lead you out. Do not delay!” 

Draco would stay behind. Before long, he would _be_ Raymond-Roger Trencavel, prisoner. 

The couples embraced quickly, and then Trencavel turned to Draco.

"Thanks in great part to you, Little Dragon, and to your lady, my family and I have a chance to begin again. We will make a new life elsewhere, with a new name. I have been branded a heretic by many and condemned, forced to abandon my birthright and that of my son. We would surely face death by fire if they knew what we really are. But in truth, it is my accusers who deserve condemnation; they use their so-called ‘faith’ as a means to gain power and wealth. They have forced their narrow-minded, punitive orthodoxy on the rest of us, on pain of death. They have lied, broken faith, and slaughtered _thousands_ in the name of their god. Theirs is the bad faith, not ours. If I am a heretic in their eyes, so be it. Forthwith, I shall bear the brand of 'bad faith' as a badge of honour." 

He paused, regarding both Draco and Hermione with a last, searching look and a myriad of emotions. After a moment, there remained only clear-eyed resolve.

"Farewell, my friends, and thank you – for everything,” he said, grasping their hands. “If ever we meet again in this life, know me by the name of Malfoi."

_Malfoi._

Before a stunned Draco could react, Trencavel had taken Agnes’ hand, vanishing with her through the trap door. 

Hermione stared at the closing door and then at Draco, who had gone very pale. The full import of Trencavel’s final words was only just becoming clear.

But there was no time to lose. Hermione had only a scant minute or two and then she must follow Agnes and Raymond-Roger or find herself lost in the labyrinth. Her own transformation into Agnes had yet to be accomplished. Shaking off her astonishment, she dug into the satchel, pulling out three small phials. Setting one aside for herself, she handed Draco a green bottle and another that was brown, both marked with a D.

“Drink this one now,” she told him quickly, indicating the green bottle, “and the brown one tomorrow morning. Agnes and I brewed it together. We were very careful, I promise. No mistakes.”

The Draught of the Living Death. A potent and dangerous admixture, not to be trifled with.

“Reassuring,” he joked, mustering a pallid smile.

“Take it when you hear the church bells chiming eight. I’ll wait twenty minutes and then ask to be brought down here for a visit. Assuming all goes according to plan...” She faltered, looking away. 

Draco swallowed hard. He faced the rest of the night in this filthy, rat-infested cell, the animosity of the guards who surely despised Trencavel, and the very real dangers of the potion he would swallow in the morning. What if things failed to go as planned?

Hermione took a step closer, her eyes mirroring his fears. Suddenly, everything in the world – all each of them had, everything they’d done and still wanted to accomplish, all they _were_ – had been reduced to this moment. One mistake and it could all be gone, like wisps of smoke vanishing into the ether.

As one, they closed the remaining space between them, arms thrown fiercely about each other and their mouths crushed together in an urgent, desperate kiss.

When they broke apart, there were no words. They would do what had to be done.

 

*

 

When Lady Trencavel began to scream the following morning, the guards came running. 

After several rough, exploratory pokes from one of them, the corpse lay sprawled across the straw pallet, face a ghastly chalk white, eyes unseeing, arms flung to either side. Before long, Montfort arrived, plainly irritated that his breakfast had been interrupted. Standing over the body, he stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully, oblivious to the hysterics of the dead man’s wife. 

Rather convenient, Trencavel’s death. Saved Montfort the trouble of dirtying his hands with a particularly heinous act, one noble murdering another in cold blood – not that such scruples would have stopped him, of course. Stepping back, he wondered just what had killed Trencavel, but only for a moment, and then he forgot he’d even cared to know. Dysentery, that’s what he’d say.

The infernal woman was still blubbing. Montfort frowned at her.

“My lord, I beg you... may I have just a moment alone with my husband?”

“Two minutes,” he barked. Then he spun on his heel and strode away, the guards dutifully following.

Quickly, Hermione pulled the antidote from her pocket, pouring it into Draco’s mouth and then lightly tapping his throat to force a swallow. His eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her, dazed. Then he smiled. He was alive.

“Come on, Malfoy, we’ve got to get out of here!” she hissed, her heart pounding. “Montfort will be back any second!”

Pulling him into a sitting position, she took his left hand in hers, making sure the rings were touching. 

“ _Reverto domus!_ ”

As before, the golden bands on their fingers began to warm and tingle, the putrid air of the dungeon swirling around them in ever-widening bands, a veritable whirlpool in the dim cell. Clinging together, they closed their eyes against the wind that flattened everything in its path, and then the world went dark.

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

Two months later

 

The glitterati of the wizarding world had turned out in force for the evening’s gala event: the opening of a special exhibit at the Ministry, featuring centuries-old magical artefacts recently discovered in southern France. 

The ground floor’s large reception area sparkled with tiny tea lights and floating candles. Chamber music issued from a musician-less string quartet in one corner. Snow-white cloths and candelabra dressed tables where house-elves served hors d’oeuvres and canapés. The champagne flowed freely; everyone had a slender flute of the bubbly in hand.

A smaller, adjacent room displayed the treasures themselves under glass. There were a silver athame, a bronze cauldron embellished with arcane symbols, a locket, a scrying mirror, an intricately carved wand, an ancient spell book, and a leather-bound compendium of the healing arts. Several pieces, including a diary and a pair of matched, engraved wedding rings, were on loan from private collectors.

The Ministry had published a comprehensive guide to the exhibit, written by the members of its curatorial team. However, Quintus Fitzhugh, prominent dealer in rare antiquities, let it be known that his people had made two of the more significant finds; moreover, one of his own researchers had contributed significantly to the publication, having been intimately involved in the exhaustive process of verifying their authenticity. Little did Fitzhugh know just how true that was.

At the moment, he was enjoying a drink with his old friend, Lucius Malfoy. 

“So, Lucius... what do you think of your boy now, eh? Quite a coup, this show. A lot of the work was his, you know. His and Hermione Granger’s.”

Lucius lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Frankly, I am inclined to doubt the wisdom of spending one’s own money in the very circumstance in which one should be making it instead.”

“Ah.” Fitzhugh nodded. “I must confess, Draco’s decision to buy those artefacts surprised me as well. Have you any idea why he wanted them? He hadn’t expressed any such desire when I first assigned the case to him.”

“None at all, I’m afraid.” Lucius took a sip of his champagne and sighed. “Ah, well... it would appear that my son’s work ethic is vastly improved, but I fear he’ll never be a businessman.”

Across the room, Draco lounged in an obscure corner, drink in hand, observing the proceedings with a jaundiced eye. A lot of people in expensive dress robes, chatting and gorging on hors d’oeuvres while tittering at each other’s banal jokes, that was it. He hadn’t spotted a single person reading the explanatory material accompanying the exhibit. There were compelling human stories hidden in those display cases, though he doubted anyone really gave a damn. For them, tonight was all about networking and being seen. Bollocks, the lot of it.

Thoroughly disgruntled, he tossed back the remains of a double whiskey and ordered another. Forget the champagne. If he got sufficiently pissed, he wouldn’t have to look at all those vapid faces.

Then he spotted her. She must have just arrived, aware of being late and looking slightly frazzled. She also looked bloody gorgeous. Mid-laugh at something someone had just said, she turned her head and saw him too. 

Galvanised by their eye contact, Draco headed towards her. It had been several weeks since they’d finished writing up their findings. They hadn’t seen each other since.

“’Evening, Granger. Enjoying yourself?”

She shrugged, accepting a drink from a passing house-elf’s tray. “I suppose. I mean, it is a Ministry ‘do. I’m paid to enjoy it. Or say I am, anyway.” There was a pause. “How are you?” she asked quietly.

“Right now, I am on my way to being quite enjoyably drunk, thanks,” he informed her with caustic geniality. “And you?”

She laughed. “It’s not that bad, is it? Well, yeah. I suppose it is, really.” She touched her glass to his. “Cheers.”

They drank in companionable silence for a time, watching the festivities. Suddenly, she turned to him, resting a hand on his arm.

“ _You_ bought the diary and the rings. I’m so glad. They really are yours by right.”

“Thanks.” Suddenly he felt lighter than he had all evening. “I still can’t believe...”

She nodded. “Have you told your parents? About Trencavel?”

“Haven’t told anyone. You’re the only one who knows.”

“I still can’t believe what happened either, though really, it makes perfect sense. I mean, he was your ancestor, wasn’t he. The first of the Malfoys.” She shook her head slowly. “How amazing is that! I think the rings found you, so you could tell their story. Your _family’s_ story. And we’ve done that now, haven’t we.” She nodded in the direction of the exhibit.

“We have. What about you, though? Somehow, you were meant to be there as well, or the rings would only have transported me.” 

“I’ve wondered about that too, actually. Why me? I’m not a Malfoy. That bit is still a mystery and we may never know the answer.”

“Would you like to?” Draco directed a sly, sidelong glance at her. “Know the answer, I mean.”

A tiny smile teased at the corners of Hermione’s mouth. “I believe I would. I’ve always hated unsolved mysteries. What exactly did you have in mind, Malfoy?”

He flashed her a cheeky grin. “Research. Lots of it. A thorough exploration of every library we can find, wizarding and Muggle. My parents’ collection, for starters. We barely scratched the surface there. We’re a good team, you and I.”

She laughed out loud then. “That’s not how you felt when we started!”

“True. But you redeemed yourself.”

“Oh, really!” she snorted. “And just how did I manage that?”

He moved closer, enough that he could smell the warm, spicy fragrance she was wearing, and slipped his arms about her waist. “Let’s see. You rode a horse side-saddle for hours without complaint –”

“That _was_ pretty awful,” she muttered with a rueful laugh, resting her palms on his chest.

She was blushing prettily now; he grinned, knowing he was the cause, and pulled her closer still. “You did some bloody good potions work – as my assistant...”

She huffed, rolling her eyes at that, though she was still smiling. 

“You worked out a key element of the puzzle. That was brilliant. _And_ ,” he continued, “you nursed men with the most appalling injuries round the clock, never giving up. Me included.” He gazed at her sombrely. “You saved my life, Hermione. Twice.” 

Unconsciously, he raised a hand to his right cheek, fingertips skimming the spot where there had been a horrific wound, now properly Healed and no longer visible. At least not to the eye.

“What about _you_? You actually _fought_ , and so bravely! I thought –”

“I know,” he sighed. “I said I’d run. Trencavel got to me, I reckon. He wasn’t pathetic or weak, like I expected. He was one of the strongest, bravest, most principled men I’ve ever known. In his place, I _would’ve_ run, I think. But he made me want to be better.”

There was a pause. As so often happened these days at random moments, everything slowed suddenly and went very quiet, vivid memories flooding his thoughts. In such moments of reflection, Draco found himself astounded, both at the remarkable chain of events into which he’d been drawn, and at the steady, incremental changes the experience had quietly wrought in the deepest, most private part of himself. At the centre of all of this was one man. His kin. Having the chance to know that man had truly been a gift, their blood tie a living legacy.

Then, just as abruptly, the present rushed back in, and he returned to the music and candlelight and murmurs of conversation, and to the beautiful girl in his arms. 

He bent his head to hers. “There is _one_ more thing you could do for me,” he murmured, the teasing glint in his eye once again. “About that kiss we had eight hundred years ago… Very nice, as I recall, but far too brief. Care to have another go?”

Smiling radiantly, Hermione cupped his face in her hands. “I believe that can be arranged.”

  
  
  
  
  


FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two more chapters, one for story photos and the other for author's notes. Enjoy!


	8. Story Photos

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

The Legacy: Photo album

 

Here are Draco and Hermione in 13th-century France.

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/TomasTrencavel.jpg.html) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/5335ae411379d1442812bfe2_emma-watson.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Tom1.jpg.html) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/tumblr_mydfraPWc51rvua2oo1_500.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/felton_film_labyrinth_002-1.jpg.html) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/emma-watson-douglas-booth-noah-stills-posters-05.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/re-sil-i-ent.png.html)  
Gorgeously evocative manip by Re-sil-i-ient, aka until-youbreak 

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/tumblr_n2p9as0peu1qg3pt2o1_r1_1280-1.jpg.html)  
The original manip by doberants26 that inspired the banner

 

 

Chateau Comtal, Carcassonne, the Trencavels’ ancestral home

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Carcassonne-castle-6-1.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Carcassonne-09-ChateaucomtaletPortedAude3.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/CarcasonneouterwallWiki.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Carcassonne_-_Le_chacircteau_comtal-1.jpg.html)

 

 

Interiors

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/120918_2169.jpg.html) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/AOB2234.jpg.html)

 

 

 

The next several images are courtesy of VirtualTourist

http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/Europe/France/Languedoc_Roussillon/Carcassonne-131886/Things_To_Do-Carcassonne-Chateau_Comtal_Museum-BR-1.html

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/5906336-Interior_of_Castle_Carcassonne.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/5848972-The_entry_into_the_museum_Carcassonne.jpg.html) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/4767069-Entrance_of_the_castle_Carcassonne.jpg.html)  
Main entrance across the bridge

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/2093868-inside_the_catle_grounds_Carcassonne.jpg.html)  
Inner courtyard

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/4801023-Chateau_Comtal_Carcassonne_France_Carcassonne.jpg.html)  
Side view of the main entrance

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Posted-On-Shock-Mansion0937.jpg.html)  
This is exactly the way I imagine the narrow, cobbled lanes of the medieval Cité within Carcassonne’s walls

 

 

The Trencavels

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Sam-HeughanTrencavel.jpg.html)  
Actor Sam Heughan as I imagine Raymond-Roger Trencavel

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Agnes.jpg.html)  
Actress Jessica Brown Findlay from “Labyrinth,” as I imagine Agnes of Montpellier

 

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Cathars_expelled.jpg.html)  
“The Expulsion of the Cathars from Carcassonne,” painted 1415  
Notice that the people are naked or nearly so. This is accurate.  
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albigensian_Crusade

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Cartes_Occitanie.png.html)  
Map of the Languedoc in southern France at the time of the Albigensian Crusade, 1209-1229  
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albigensian_Crusade

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Montpellierpainting.jpg.html)  
Artist: Jean-Frederic Bazille. “Porte de la Reine at Aigues-Mortes,” painted 1867. View of the medieval walled town of Aigues-Mortes, Montpellier. Agnes might well have grown up right here, prior to her marriage to Raymond-Roger Trencavel. 

Painting on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City 

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Signage.jpg.html)  
Accompanying signage for the above painting 

 

 

Medieval Clothing

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/2f8ca31bbf74d2512e8e7f1f2aeaa59d-1.jpg.html)  
Hermione’s blue kirtle. She would have worn a chemise underneath it, which doubled as a nightgown. You can see a bit of it at the hem.

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/7b3917e8534654ce8ed0ec35a6002b48.jpg.html)  
Typical women’s clothing of the period. Note the veils and circlets they wore.

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/d54ba9729bba02d24db19492c9916311.jpg.html)  
Wimple and veil

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/chemise-1.jpeg.html)  
Chemise, worn underneath the kirtle

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/7df2d7444a9521b8848a9b22630b4752-1.jpg.html)  
Fighting gear. Here is Draco, prepared to fight as one of Trencavel’s men. (Photo from the film “Labyrinth”)

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/52072939411370750_1N2z0AxO_c-2.jpg.html)  
Everyday dress: tunic, leggings, and a cloak (and sword, apparently. Yes, that is James Franco on the left!)

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/braies.jpg.html)  
Braies, aka men’s underwear

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/60418.jpg.html)  
low boots

 

 

 

Happy Ending...

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/10269479_1469348309987766_3112323541811062404_n-2-1.jpg.html)  
I couldn’t resist including a photo of Draco and Hermione once they’d returned to 2004 and reconnected. Because of course, the ending for these two is a very happy one.

Thanks and credit to the mystery manip artist who created this lovely image! (source: Feltson page on Facebook)

 

 

P.S. It’s come to my attention (denialisnot let me know about this) that there is actually a board game called “Carcassonne” that originated in Germany and is now available in many languages and in many countries, including the US. It can be bought at Amazon, as a matter of fact. The point of the game is to build roads, bridges, woods, towns, etc., by laying down as many tiles as possible. The player who amasses the most territory/points is the winner. You can see that the designer of the game used the real Carcassonne and Chateau Comtal as the model.

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/51BGBHM5FFL.jpg.html)

 

 

 

 

 

Note: The period photos of Tom are from the film, “Labyrinth,” in which he actually plays Raymond-Roger Trencavel. The photos of Emma are from the film “Noah.”


	9. Author's Notes

  
[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/Legacybanner2.jpg.html)

 

 

Author’s Notes

Thanks to my superbly talented and irreplaceable beta, mister_otter. It’s in large part because of you, Carol, that the writing of this fic went so smoothly.

Huge thanks, too, to my wonderfully talented banner maker, doberants26, aka Tanya. She had done a manip that I found on Tumblr months ago and saved, because it was so striking. I knew that one day, I would write a story about Raymond-Roger Trencavel and his heroic stand against the Crusaders and the oppressive hand of the Church, most likely a Remix. I asked if she could transform the original manip into a banner for my fic by adding the Chateau Comtal in the background. She waved her artist’s wand and voila! She came up with this gorgeous and very striking creation. 

The unique thing about my chosen couple, Raymond-Roger Trencavel and his wife, Agnes of Montpellier, is that it’s tricky to classify them for a Remix. First and foremost, they were real people. However, Trencavel is also a character in the Kate Mosse historical novel, **Labyrinth** , as well as in the film of the same name, based on the novel. But because Mosse’s novel and the film do not really offer a clear portrait of Agnes, I based my characterization of her on what I could find out about the real woman who lived eight hundred years ago. In fact, my portraits of both Trencavels are largely based on the available histories of the period and the Albigensian Crusade.

Not surprisingly, this story required a prodigious amount of research. I found a wealth of information, all of it fascinating, deeply disturbing and compelling. In the end, because of word-limit constraints at the Remix, I couldn’t possibly use it all. For instance, I chose to omit the following passage for lack of space, but it is worth reading. It was a message to the crusading soldiers from Pope Innocent III – he was the instigating force behind the Crusades – glorifying the violence, cruelty, and mass murders carried out by the Crusaders in their relentless holy war on the Cathars and their perceived heresy, and promising a place in heaven for all who diligently and enthusiastically perpetrated the atrocities. It is highly revealing of the frightening collective mentality of the Catholic Church at that time:

 

_“O most mighty soldiers of Christ, most brave warriors; Ye oppose the agents of anti-Christ, and ye fight against the servants of the old serpent. Perchance up to this time ye have fought for transitory glory, now fight for the glory which is everlasting. Ye have fought for the body, fight now for the soul. Ye have fought for the world, now do ye fight for God. For we have not exhorted you to the service of God for a worldly prize, but for the heavenly kingdom, which for this reason we promise to you with all confidence.”_

 

Another shocking quote reveals Abbot Arnaud-Amaury’s justification for his appalling betrayal of Viscount Raymond-Roger Trencavel.

_“No faith is to be kept with one who has been so faithless to his God.”_

http://biblenews.net/church-history/europe-church-history/the-incredible-story-of-raymond-roger-and-the-siege-of-carcassonne/

 

My fictitious wizard historian, Guillaume de Barbarac, is actually writer Stephen O’Shea, from whose excellent book, **The Perfect Heresy** , I borrowed the two paragraphs detailing the massacre and burning of Béziers. 

http://stephenosheaonline.com/book-tph-ex1.html

 

I found basic biographical information about Raymond-Roger Trencavel, Agnes of Montpellier, their son, the Cathars, the Albigensian Crusade, Simon de Montfort, and all related historical figures and events at Wikipedia.

 

Very helpful resource: **The Oxford Encyclopaedia of Medieval Warfare and Military Technology**. Here, it details the events of the Albigensian Crusade specifically as they affected Raymond-Roger Trencavel and Carcassonne.

http://books.google.com/books?id=mzwpq6bLHhMC&pg=PA326&lpg=PA326&dq=raymond+roger+trencavel+visit+carcassonne&source=bl&ots=xc5WU91-WE&sig=pH88EMNRaHNOKGZjHkKvpCuthBE&hl=en&sa=X&ei=o1TVU6vsOoqmyATAsIDADA&ved=0CGkQ6AEwCA#v=onepage&q=raymond%20roger%20trencavel%20visit%20carcassonne&f=false

 

 _Already rejoicing, I begin to love_ : the opening line of a courtly love poem, or _fine amor_ , by Guilhem, Count of Poitiers and Duke of Aquitaine, composed in the year 1100. He was the first of the French troubadours and wrote in Occitan, the language of southwestern France, the region in which this story takes place.

http://www.love-poetry-of-the-world.com/medieval-love-poetry-examples1.html

 

 _Reverto domus_ : “Return home”

 

 _Trebuchet_ : a type of Medieval siege engine that utilized a catapult to hurl deadly projectiles over great distances. 

 

Information about the Chateau Comtal (Castle of the Counts), ancestral home of the Trencavel family, and the Albigensian Crusade:

http://www.catharcastles.info/carcassonne.php?key=carcassonne

 

An interesting blog describing a recent visit to medieval Carcassonne, by Anne Sophie Redisch:

http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/06-10/medieval-carcassonne-languedoc-france-europe.html

 

Medieval clothing:

http://www.pinterest.com/pruebatten/medieval-clothing-and-costume-1100-1300/

 

Medieval medicine and apothecaries:

https://suite.io/rachel-bellerby/259n204  
http://www.faqs.org/health/topics/82/Apothecary.html  
http://www.gohistorygo.com/#!medieval-medicine-/c1hxm  
http://www.humanities360.com/index.php/middle-ages-the-apothecary-59350/

 

Occitan names from the 13th century, including _Dragonet Le Preux_ (“Little Dragon the Valiant”) and _Dreu_ , were taken from a 13th-century account of the Albigensian Crusades:

http://www.s-gabriel.org/names/ramon/occitan/

 

Some may wonder about how the magicking of the wedding rings worked. The way I envisioned it, there was only ever one set of rings. When Hermione and Draco time-travelled to the past, they left the rings behind in the year 2004. When they returned to the twenty-first century, they were wearing the rings to ensure that the spell put on them by Agnes would transport them home. However, when they arrived back in 2004, the rings were no longer on their fingers, but in the box where they had been left. 

In terms of a time frame, they spent five weeks in 13th-century France, although only a few days passed in 2004 while they were gone.

Another important point has to do with whether Draco and Hermione could actually change the course of history. The answer is, they couldn’t – and they knew it. But their presence in the 13th century did make a difference to the Trencavels, in that it facilitated the escape plan that Raymond-Roger had already worked out, making it far less risky. 

In the original plan, Agnes would have stolen down to her husband’s cell in the dead of night when the guards were between shifts; they would then have Apparated out of the castle to a designated safe place, where they’d have arranged for their baby to be brought, and then gone away for good, ready to begin a new life with new identities using the name “Malfoi.” (Alternatively, they could conceivably have escaped through the trapdoor in the cell and then out through the secret passageways without using magic, but it would have taken far longer and been more dangerous as a result.)

Thus, the Malfoy line would have been founded. Of course, either way, such a plan would have carried far greater risks, since they’d have had no disguises and more crucially, no presumptive Trencavel physically still in the cell to fool the soldiers and buy them more time. Finally, Apparating would have carried its own dangers in terms of the greater likelihood of discovery and their magic being exposed.

By the following morning at the very latest, Simon de Montfort would have discovered that the cell was empty, and, not wanting this to become public knowledge, he would have sworn the guards to secrecy while sending out soldiers to discreetly scour the countryside. When the search proved unsuccessful, he would have spread the lie that Trencavel had died of dysentery. This, then, would be what went into all the history books and what everyone would subsequently believe.

Within the context of the story, history wasn’t changed, ultimately, because the end result was the same. It was simply tweaked a bit, but in a way that had profound implications for Draco and for Hermione too, chief of which were the founding of the Malfoy line and of course, the life-changing legacy of the experience itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Tremendous thanks to my wonderful beta, mister_otter. Thanks, too, to doberants26 for the beautiful banner.
> 
> Disclaimer: I make no money from this story. Only the original plot and characters belong to me.


End file.
